Rogan's World

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About Rogan’s World Rogan’s World is a novella length story being published for the first time as an e-book. In Rogan’s World New York Times bestselling science fiction author William C. Diet z takes a satiric look at the future. It’s a time when the Calag Corporation saves money by putting one man in charge of an entire agricultural planet. Because other than an orbiting cyborg named Wally, and thousands of robots, Dan Rogan lives on Calag Planet 4782/X all by himself. It should be a simple but enjoyable life. But with a worldwide harvest to manage, an overbearing boss, and some unexpected labor problems to cope with Rogan has his hands full. And that’s not all... Can a nice guy cope with a femme fatal, the criminals who want to find her, and thousands of dying aliens? There’s only one way to find out.

ROGAN’S WORLD By

William C. Dietz

Contents About Rogan’s World Title Page Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Other Books by William C. Dietz About the Author Copyright

This one is for Mike Davison. He’s a good friend, a fellow adventurer, and a person you can count on when the stuff hits the fan.

Chapter One

CONFIDENTIAL Calag Inc. Board Eyes Only So by keeping sentient staff to an absolute minimum, and by making maximum use of robotic support systems, the company will minimize expense, maximize profits, and achieve an ROI of at least ten percent. With that in mind I think the board will agree that the negative psychodynamics described by PERSPSYCH STAFF will be more than offset by Calag’s ability to build market share. (Excerpted from PRESPERS EYES ONLY MEMO CS/CC-876921.)

Calag Planet 4782/X awoke to the sound of rain pounding on the plastiform roof. Not the gentle rain that R ogan was scheduled to fall each night, but a downpour that could expose vulnerable roots and fill rivers to overflowing. Damn. He threw the covers aside, rolled out of bed, and stood. He had short kinky black hair, a slim body, and a determined chin. He paused to listen for a moment, then strode toward the door. It hurried to get out of the way. The dimly lit hallway, living area, and entryway led out onto the porch. Lightning strobed the distant hills and thunder rolled as Rogan padded down the steps to the duracrete pad. The rain pelted his naked skin. He touched the com link located under the right corner of his jaw. “Wally? You there?” ••• Wally, better known to his mother as Walter Prescott Dugan Jr., was in orbit two hundred and fifty miles above the planet’s surface. And, while he wasn’t asleep, he wasn’t exactly awake either. He released .05 cc worth of stimulant into what remained of his bloodstream and waited for it to kick in. “Yeah, I’m here. Where the hell else would I be?” Though normally sympathetic, Rogan was in no mood to indulge the cyborg’s taste for selfpity. “It’s raining, Wally. It’s raining hard. What happened?” Rogan had been known to drink once in a while, especially when lonely, and Wally wondered if he was sloshed. But a quick check of the instrument package built into Rogan’s house confirmed that it was not only raining, but raining hard. Too hard. Something was wrong. Wally ran a systems check. Like most agricultural planets, Calag 4782/X was equipped with a computer-controlled weather system. And, like the systems on most ag planets, it worked about half the time. But that didn’t stop the suits from modeling Rogan’s quotas on the optimistic specs provided by the system’s manufacturer—or bombarding him with nasty memos when production levels

dropped—all of which added up to a planetary manager (PM) who stood in the rain and drank too much. Wally had been linked to the computer so long he didn’t know which part of his mental capacity was his own and which part belonged to the company’s Systems Group. And it really didn’t matter, since an accident had destroyed his body and reduced him to little more than a brain—which, when combined with the latest in bioelectronics, made good money by living in orbit and supervising the planet’s electromechanical systems. Once retrieved and analyzed, the data said it all. The cyborg kept it short. “A hurricane veered off its projected track and brushed the coast two hundred miles east of Chateau Rogan. The good news is that the rain should taper off in an hour or so.” ••• Rogan held out his hand. Had the rain slackened? He wasn’t sure. Well, nothing could be done till first light. He looked upward and blinked when raindrops hit his eyes. “Thanks, Wally. Sorry if I was a jerk.” Wally smiled, or would have had he been equipped with lips. “Forget it. Besides . . .who ever heard of a PM that wasn’t a jerk?” Rogan laughed, shivered as a light breeze slid across his skin, and headed for the house. His feet were big, too big, some people said, and water splashed away from them. The house ate him in a single gulp. It was huge and empty. Most of his peers had families, including a mate, two or three kids, and a menagerie of pets. That’s why management built identical sixbedroom mini-mansions on all of their ag planets. It was the kind of one-size-fits-all solution that strategic planners loved. The problem was that the empty rooms served to amplify Rogan’s loneliness. He considered a drink but rejected the idea in favor of lights and music. The central computer heard his command, turned the lights up, and triggered a Johnny Cash album. It was hundreds of years old, but the sound was crystal clear. The house comp automatically passed the sound to Wally, who didn’t enjoy retro music but liked to spy on Rogan. And so it was that the cyborg watched the sun rise over the western hemisphere to the strains of “I Walk the Line.” Rogan entered the shower, ordered the water on, and savored the immediate warmth. Then he inched the water temperature up until it was just short of scalding. It was there, under the rush of hot water, that Rogan had some of his best ideas. And, what with an already weak wheat harvest and a rogue rainstorm, he could use some. None were forthcoming, however. So Rogan left the shower cleaner but no wiser. A robot scooted in behind Rogan to scrub the shower down. Clothes weren’t a necessity since Rogan was the only human being on the planet and the climate was generally temperate. But he wore some anyway. His usual uniform consisted of a faded University of Nulon T-shirt, blue shorts, and hiking boots. In keeping with the rest of the house, the kitchen was enormous. The auto-chef served him a cup of tea and a bagel with cream cheese, the same breakfast he ate every day. Rogan carried the food to the workstation he had established on the kitchen table. The house had a fully equipped office, but it was lonely in there. The kitchen was warmer and smelled like food. A quick check of his e-mail showed that commodity prices were holding steady, animal protein was up a point, and metals were off a bit. It seemed that the company had named yet another vice president to join the army of executives on the corporate golf course, the competition had announced the release of a new vegetable, and the Nulon Alumni Association

wanted a donation. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Rogan took a bite of bagel, sipped his tea, and queried his private mailbox. Maybe, just maybe, there had been a reply to his ad. Nothing. Just a cursor blinking on and off. Rogan sighed, ran a check on the weather system, and carried his dishes to the sink. ••• Up in space and half a world away, Wally shook his nonexistent head. He had read Rogan’s e-mail at the same time Rogan did. The ad was a bad idea and the cyborg was glad that no one had responded to it. He couldn’t say that, of course, not to Rogan’s face, but that’s the way he felt. The last thing he needed was a stranger wandering around, consuming Rogan’s time, and getting in the way. Wally ordered one of his minisats to focus a telephoto lens on the front door of the house and waited for Rogan to emerge. The optics were so good that if his friend had a zit, the cyborg would know. ••• Rogan blinked as he stepped out into bright sunlight. Carefully mowed green grass slid down to meet an artificial lake. Bio-engineered insects skittered across the surface of the water-and occasionally there was a splash as one of the pond’s trout had a snack. None of the fish had reason to fear a hook, since Rogan lacked both the time and temperament to go fishing. The air smelled fresh and clean. Rogan took a deep breath and felt his spirits rise. This was the part of the job that he liked the best: roaming the planet and solving the fantastic array of problems that came his way. He touched the link. “So, Wally . . . what’s hot?” The cyborg was ready with an itinerary. “I figured you’d want to survey the flood damage off the top. After that you can check on some stranded aniforms, hit the restart button on Harvey 451, and eyeball the apple harvest.” Rogan frowned. “Hit the restart on Harvey 451? What the hell for? Send a droid.” “Sorry,” Wally replied, “no can do. The idiots in purchasing bought Harveys 450, 451, and 452 at an auction when Nugumi Manufacturing went under. They got ‘em cheap—real cheap—but without any mods. So even though the droids were able to fix Harvey 451, it takes a living, breathing bio bod to fire one up. Think of it as job security.” Rogan was still swearing as he cut across the lawn to the duracrete apron and entered the support building. It was cool inside and smelled of lubricants. A number of transportation options were available to him, including a pair of twelve-foot-tall exoskeletons, three-wheeled ATVs, and a couple of grav trucks, including the beat-up unit he used almost every day. Three robots had been assigned to maintain the equipment, and the lead unit came out to greet him. In a fruitless attempt to make the spiderlike machine seem more human, Rogan had named it Bob and spray-painted the name across the top of its otherwise pristine housing. He nodded in the droid’s general direction. “Morning, Bob. How’s it hanging?” Like most of the planet’s more complex robots, Bob had the capacity to learn what was important and what wasn’t. Meaningless greetings had no relevance to his duties and were ignored. “All vehicles are functional. Would you like a detailed report?” Rogan walked by and servos whined as Bob turned to follow him. “Thanks, but no thanks. No offense, old buddy . . . but your reports are boring as hell.” If Bob was offended, he gave no sign of it and watched impassively as Rogan circled the truck looking for telltale leaks or other problems. There were none. So Rogan checked to make sure that his emergency supplies and tools were aboard and

properly stowed. Nothing made him more angry than to wind up a thousand miles from nowhere minus a critical tool. The truck was about twenty-five feet long, twelve feet wide, and shaped like a wedge. It could reach an altitude of three hundred feet, cruise at four hundred miles an hour, and carry a five-ton payload. And with an entire planet to supervise, that made the truck the most useful vehicle at his disposal. Sometimes, in order to cope with problems on the far side of the world, he was gone for weeks at a time. Rogan palmed the hatch, and heard the whining sound as it opened. The interior had a Spartan feel: a tool belt, a box of spare parts, and two bottles of water occupied the seldomused passenger seat. There were two bunks aft of that, a cramped lavatory, and a tiny galley. Rogan felt around under an old leather jacket and found that the half-empty bottle of Duncan’s Prime was right where he’d left it. Good. He wouldn’t have a drink—not this early— but it was nice to know it was there. Rogan ran his eyes over the control panel, started the ignition sequence, and listened as the anti-grav units wound up. They sounded nice and tight. It took thirty seconds for the power board to turn green and another thirty to complete a systems check. The hum turned to a steady whine as Rogan taxied out of the support building and into the glare. The canopy darkened to compensate. There weren’t any other aircraft on the planet, but Rogan went through the motions of checking with the air traffic computer before lifting off. He eyed the screens arrayed in front of him and waited until all the buildings had dwindled to the size of toys before advancing the throttle. Having approved the coordinates downloaded from Wally, he switched to autopilot. It was tempting to place the seat in the reclining position and take a nap, but his quarterly reports were due in three days. Rogan hit the terminal release, pulled the unit over his lap, and entered his access code. The resulting “Good morning, Dan Rogan” appeared in front of Wally as well. The cyborg looked, gave the mental equivalent of a yawn, and turned his attention elsewhere. Rogan leaned back in his chair. “Verbal mode, please.” The computer had a soft androgynous voice. “Verbal mode confirmed.” “Quarterly reports, page three, harvest totals.” A page of closely worded boilerplate flooded the screen, with blanks where the totals and supporting graphics would go. “Find and enter current totals by category.” The reply came quickly. “Before or after spoilage, wastage, and loss?” Rogan gave the question some thought. His totals should reflect spoilage, wastage, and loss since that was what the company would actually receive and be able to use. But he was running behind his quotas—a fact made worse by the storm—and the higher figure would look better to the suits. Their computers would detect the deception and produce enough exception reports to kill a forest of trees, but the strategy would buy some time—time he needed to boost production. Half an hour later, the grav truck slowed and descended toward the ground below. Rogan was partway through a carefully worded response to an interdepartmental interrogatory regarding his “profligate use of fertilizer” when Wally interrupted. “Time to run your corders if you want aerials of the flooding.” There were times when Rogan resented the fact that the cyborg spent a lot of time both literally and figuratively looking over his shoulder, but this wasn’t one of them. He could use the aerials to illustrate the extent of the damage and support his request for lower quotas—not to mention the fact that the suits loved flashy reports. That’s why the PMs vied with one another

to submit sexy multimedia productions, a competition Rogan detested but was forced to participate in. So he started the truck’s corders and watched his screens. As usual the multiangle computer-enhanced vid looked better than what he could see through the window. The river known as tributary NH/Q17-3514 had overflowed its banks. The water covered a field and threatened to drown the seeds planted there. That was bad, but not as bad as it could have been, since he had taken out some insurance by investing in high-grade AA-1 squash seed. Unlike the cheaper stuff, double-A could sense the low oxy levels associated with flooding and change its own metabolism to compensate. So what had been a risky decision was going to pay off. Would the squash counters give him credit for that? Hell no. The grav truck settled onto a mound with a distinct thump. Rogan checked to make sure all systems were on standby and exited the vehicle. The hillock was twenty-five feet higher than the surrounding field and naked of plant growth. There were fifty-seven mounds in all, a fact of which Rogan was well aware. He had even gone to the trouble of referencing the planet’s voluminous terraforming report, only to find that the hillocks had been written off as “an unusual manifestation of glacial scrubbing.” The theory sounded reasonable since Calag 4782/X had been an ice world prior to Earthnormal terraforming. But the uniformity of the mounds continued to bother him. In fact he was determined to slice one in half and see what was inside when he found the time. At least slightly cheered by the fact that the flooding could have been worse, Rogan reentered the grav truck and took off. The stranded aniforms were the next item on his itinerary and not too far away. By maintaining a low altitude and following a swiftly flowing river, Rogan had little difficulty locating them. The flooding had created a temporary island, and a herd of aniforms had taken refuge there. These particular creatures were bovine derived. They were white with black spots and, although heavily modified, still bore a resemblance to the ancient cattle from which they had evolved. But while their heads had a cow-like appearance, generations of bioengineers had transformed their bodies into huge hippo-like protein factories, each having tremendous muscle mass and short, stubby legs—legs that had to do little more than carry them to their food or away from a flood. After wandering in among them, Rogan spotted a large female that had suffered a laceration on her right flank during the storm. She was quite docile and made no attempt to escape as he closed the wound and sprayed sealer over it. Then he ordered Wally to send a grav barge loaded with specially formulated feed to the island. Once the water receded, the aniforms would be free to roam. Rogan hurried to the truck. It was a one-hour flight to the vast wheat field where Harvey 451 stood dreadfully idle. Rogan used the time to finish his response to the fertilizer interrogatory, lied on Wally’s quarterly fitness report, and checked his off-planet e-mail. There were no replies to his ad. The truck slowed and Rogan looked out the side window. The wheat covered more than a thousand square miles of carefully contoured land—land that was supposed to produce part of the six hundred million tons the company expected Rogan to deliver that year. The problem was that he was some two million tons short because of the unrealistically high quotas the suits had given him. The unharvested wheat, all of which was common 7.3 or T.aestivum 7.3, was a wonderful golden brown color. Rogan never tired of watching the way it danced in the wind. Most of the harvesters were little more than reddish orange dots on the distant horizon.

Each one had left a mile-wide swath of stubble in its wake, except, that is, for Harvey 451, which stood like a rust-colored island in a sea of amber. As he landed, Rogan cursed the idiots who had designed the machine, the fools who had purchased it, and the scumbags who had sent it to his world. As the drive units spooled down, Rogan jumped to the ground and began to wade through the wheat. It swished against his legs and left a coating of dust. Harvey 451 stood strong and silent, as much a result of mechanical evolution as the aniforms were of genetic breeding. As Rogan jumped onto the first rung of a ladder and began to climb, he could feel the slight vibration caused by the harvester’s power plant. A small eight-legged robot beeped a greeting as the human arrived on deck one. One of four machines permanently assigned to Harvey 451, the droid was equipped for welding and waved a laser-equipped arm toward the human. Rogan nodded politely. “I’m here to activate this monster. Where’s the switch?” “You’re here to activate this monster,” the robot chirped agreeably. “The switch is located an inch and half to the right of the emergency shutdown control.” Rogan gritted his teeth. “Lead me to the switch.” “I will lead you to the switch,” the robot said. “Please follow.” The robot walked on tiptoe, its long, spindly legs carrying it along at a pretty good clip, its head rotating in 360-degree circles as it scanned the environment. Rogan followed the machine over a grating-covered walkway, up a vertical ladder, over a bridge, through an access door, up a short flight of stairs, and into a cramped control room. It had been designed for emergency use, so there were no creature comforts, not even a seat. Now that Rogan could see the layout, it was a simple matter to locate the switch, remove the access panel beneath it, and pull a handful of brightly colored spaghetti out into the light. After tracing the wires and checking them against the three-dimensional schematic that the robot projected into the air, Rogan hooked them together in a way that would bypass the harvey’s on-off switch. The next time the machine went offline, the maintenance droids would be able to restart the harvester by themselves. As Rogan stood, he felt the deck lurch under his feet and realized how stupid he’d been. The gigantic machine was rolling forward and the grav truck was sitting in the way. The emergency shutoff button was right there, waiting for his fist to slam down on it, but a system-by-system restart would take an hour—an hour that would put the harvest even further behind. It took more than a minute for Rogan to retrace his steps, descend the ladder, and jump to the ground. His legs pumped like pistons and the race was on. The truck was just ahead, but the harvester was rumbling along right behind him, its jaws gobbling wheat. All it would take was one misstep and it would be over. Then Rogan was there. He ran the length of the truck and scrambled into the cockpit. He had left the vehicle on standby, and the response was instantaneous. One moment the giant harvester was nipping at the truck’s rear end and the next moment Rogan was airborne and climbing like hell. He had leveled off when Wally spoke in his head. “That was impressive but not especially bright.” Rogan scowled. “Who the hell asked you?” Silence prevailed until Rogan arrived over valley NH/Q23-7819. A long, slow river meandered down its middle. The water was higher than normal but part of a different drainage system and less active than tributary NH/Q17-3514 had been. Orchards bordered both sides of the river. And, with their own needs in mind, machines had

laid the trees out in orderly rows. Sunlight flashed off metal as an eight-armed robo-picker plucked apples from branches. Rogan lowered the grav truck onto a duracrete pad and checked with Wally. His anger had dissipated by then, but he still sounded gruff. “So give me the numbers.” Wally was ready and rattled off a long series of statistics, including the average number of apples per tree, projected shipping weight, long-term mutation rates, vitamin and nutritional values, picking speed, and how those figures compared with previous crops. Rogan left the truck and walked toward the nearest trees. Weed-suppressing grass had been planted between the trunks and gave slightly under his boots. Insects that were designed to cross-pollinate the surrounding plants and provide food for the Type 1 fliers that buzzed around his head. Rogan didn’t mind in the least. What had started as an expression of restrained hope turned to a smile and quickly grew into a grin. The apple harvest was better than predicted. Something was going right for a change! Rogan approached a heavily laden branch, plucked a cube-shaped apple from it, and examined the fruit for flaws. There were none. The shape was perfect for packing and transshipment. While the pale green skin was resistant to the effects of mechanized picking, it still yielded to his bite. The apple’s interior was firm, white, and wonderfully crisp. Juice flooded his mouth as he chewed. Rogan realized he was hungry, so he ate the rest of the apple too . . . cinnamonflavored seeds and all. Then with a lightheartedness he hadn’t felt in days, he made his way to the truck and took off. It was only later, while sitting in the big empty house, that Rogan poured himself a drink.

Chapter T wo

WANTED For fraud, forgery, and interplanetary flight from prosecution, Jennifer Tran, aka Jennifer Wong and Jennifer Jones. Tran is a twenty-seven-year-old humanoid of Asian extraction. She has black hair, brown eyes, and a slender build. Height: five feet one inch. Weight: approximately ninety-five pounds. Tran has a tattoo in the form of a red rose located toward the top of her right breast, smokes stim sticks, and has a fondness for flashy clothes. She has no history of violence but keeps company with those who do. Approach with extreme caution. (Excerpted from INTERPOL INPLANCOMNET BULLETIN SD-06/17/2173.)

The Planet Crumby II grav station was about half-full. At least half the crowd consisted of droids carrying out a T he wide variety of tasks that sentients didn’t want to do. The rest of the passengers were locals on their way to work, people on shopping trips, or tourists seeing the sights. And though not a tourist in the normal sense, Jennifer Tran wasn’t a local either. Doors slid open as the grav train entered the station and came to a stop in front of a platform. There was a commotion as dozens of people got off and others hurried to board. Tran scanned the platform for cops and jumped on board. The doors closed behind her, and the gender-neutral voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “The train is about to start. Please hang on.” Tran obeyed. Droids received the warning via low-powered radio, and nonhumans “heard” the instruction in a variety of ways depending on their physiology and psychological preferences. The train surged forward and entered a tunnel, and Tran allowed herself to relax. It had taken the better part of an hour to lose the cop—way too long for someone of her experience. Was she getting old? No, not yet, although she didn’t feel very good. The eye hurt where Jones had struck her the night before, and Tran resisted the temptation to reach up and touch it. Her makeup was heavier than usual and likely to smear. The black eye and a collection of bruises were all she had to show for her two-year relationship with Joman Jones. Well, no more. Jones would get his, and right where it would hurt the most: in the wallet. A humming sound caused Tran to turn and look. A baseball-sized globe had detached itself from a maintenance droid and was drifting her way. A correspondingly small beacon was mounted on top of it and strobed on and off. A copeye! The piece of crap had snuck aboard disguised as the robotic equivalent of a goiter. Even though it was a machine, the copeye still managed to sound officious. “Jennifer Tran! Stay where you are! Law enforcement officers have been summoned. Jennifer Tran . . .” The next words were muffled because Tran snatched a shopping bag from a female

Zyphid’s tool tentacle, turned it upside down, and pulled the now empty sack down over the copeye’s spherical body. Zyphids considered peanut butter a delicacy, and five jars of the stuff hit the floor. A tourist stood and moved toward Tran. He was big and menacing, but as the train slowed, his foot landed on a jar of peanut butter and he went down in a spectacular flurry of arms and legs. The doors swished open as the train came to a stop, and a pair of steroidal cops bulled their way aboard. Tran threw the sack at the first one and ran toward the other end of the car. The rear sliders were open, which allowed her to barge out onto the platform, which was halffull. Tran screamed “Fire!” and pointed toward the train. Most of the sentients ran away from the nonexistent blaze, while all the robots rolled, hopped, and spidered forward—not because they were heroic but because their programming forced them to do so. As the police were about to leave the train, they were immediately “saved” by a gang of fifteen droids. The cops struggled to free themselves but were quickly overpowered and carried toward the safety of an emergency exit. Tran ran like hell. Anyone or anything that got in the way received a shove, including a robot, a four-armed Imwat, and an old lady. Once in the clear, Tran raced up an escalator and out into bright sunshine. Ondu was a city of approximately twenty million beings, and in spite of the benefits of massive telecommuting, at least ten or twenty percent of the citizens were out and about at any given time. That meant crowds, and crowds meant safety—but only if she could blend in. Tran forced herself to stop in front of a shop window. A pretty face looked back at her. Well, it would have been pretty if it hadn’t been for the bruises and heavy makeup. Tran had almond-shaped eyes, a well-formed nose, and full lips. She gave them a fresh coat of lipstick, pouted for the man watching from inside the store, and continued on her way. After that it was a simple matter to remove her reversible jacket, carry it for a block or so, and put it on inside out. The purse contained nothing of value, so that went into a trash can. Fewer than five seconds were required to reset the programmable wig from purple to a more conservative red. Fifteen minutes after her run-in with the police, Tran looked entirely different and felt like eating lunch, an activity that would get her in off the street as well. Lunch, especially in a nice restaurant, was one of Tran’s favorite vices. She spotted a place called Mitzel’s Bistro and crossed in the middle of the block. A robotic delivery van beeped and screeched to a tire-shredding halt. Tran ignored it. The restaurant’s interior was dark and inviting. She entered, swept the room for cops, and smiled at the maître d’. He ran a practiced eye over her clothes, correctly estimated their value, and smiled in return. “Good afternoon, madam. A table for one?” Tran nodded. “Yes, thank you. Something private would be nice. A corner perhaps?” The maître d’ bowed. “Of course. Follow me.” He led her to a table, introduced a waiter, and disappeared. After lingering over the menu, Tran chose the genetically lemon-flavored chicken and a glass of Chablis. It was a little too sweet but palatable nevertheless. As Tran savored the wine, she considered the meeting ahead. Jamar-Jalmar was a sweet but gullible Sentha who had landed on Crumby II a short time before and had the misfortune of catching Joman Jones’s eye. Having spotted the mark, the con man followed the alien home and kept an eye on him for the next three days. During that time Jones gathered all sorts of information about the Sentha, including a rough idea of his net worth and where he did his banking, both of which were necessary to set the alien up.

No one knew where the bank examiner con had come from, or who had invented the scheme, except to say that it had human origins and had been around for hundreds of years. Numerous variations had been developed, but the basic concept remained the same. The mark was approached by a person who claimed to be a bank examiner but was actually a con artist. After working his or her way into the victim’s confidence, the phony official would explain that he or she was investigating a dishonest bank employee and request the depositor’s assistance. By making a large cash withdrawal and allowing the examiner to check the serial numbers, the customer could help catch a crook. Except that the examiner was the crook. And once the mark surrendered his or her money, the mark would never see it again. That’s what Jones had planned for Jamar-Jalmar, except that Tran planned to con the con artist and keep the loot for herself. Tran told her pocket com what number to call and waited for the phone to ring. JamarJalmar had a top-of-the-line voice synthesizer. “You have reached the Jamar-Jalmar dwelling. How may this being help?” “Greetings, Citizen Jamar-Jalmar. This is Ms. Arlo at First Intersystems Bank.” “Hello, Ms. Arlo. It is an honor to exchange verbal pleasantries with you.” “And with you, Citizen Jamar-Jalmar. Did I reach you at a bad time?” “No,” the alien replied, “the time is good. What can this being do for you?” “You remember Mr. Jones?” “Yes,” Jamar-Jalmar replied happily, “a nice being much interested in identifying and apprehending dishonest workers.” “Exactly,” Tran replied carefully. “Well, Mr. Jones asked me to call and change the time of the meeting from three p.m. to one p.m.—if that’s convenient for you.” “I see,” Jamar-Jalmar said thoughtfully. “I did have plans to sharpen my beak, but I can do that later. Where will we meet?” “That’s the other thing,” Tran said smoothly. “An emergency arose and Mr. Jones asked that I take his place.” “Well, I’m sure Mr. Jones knows best,” the alien said trustingly. “Where shall I meet you?” “In front of your building will be fine,” Tran replied. “And don’t forget to bring a suitcase.” “A suitcase?” Jamar-Jalmar asked hesitantly. “What for?” “To hold the money,” Tran said. “Unless you have some rather large pockets.” The synthesizer made some grunting sounds that Tran took to be laughter. “No, Ms. Arlo. I have no pockets, large or small. I will bring a suitcase.” “Excellent,” Tran replied. “I’ll pick you up at twelve forty-five. And one more thing . . .” “Yes?” “I might need to reach you—so stay off your com. And don’t answer unless you hear two beeps, followed by a pause, followed by two more beeps.” “It shall be as you say,” the alien agreed. “I will see you at twelve forty-five.” “Thank you.” The click was followed by a dial tone and a four-second commercial. Tran smiled and finished her lunch. The top-of-the-line stim stick and the specially blended coffee made for a nice combination. Tran’s auto-cab pulled up in front of Jamar-Jalmar’s apartment complex at exactly twelve forty-five. It was one of more than three hundred tall buildings that fronted the north end of green belt 6. And, like the rest of the structures that stretched to the east and west, the south side of the high-rise was tiled with solar cells. The cells met about thirty percent of the building’s power requirements and helped keep overhead down, an issue of some importance

to the cost-conscious tenants who lived and worked there. Sunlight glinted off glass doors as Jamar-Jalmar shuffled out into the open. The alien was a comic figure by human standards. His birdlike beak protruded from a small head. His saucer shaped eyes seemed to bulge with pent-up emotion, while a well-rounded tummy suggested a balloon about to pop. Clothes so loose that they flapped in the breeze added to the overall impression. But XTs can be and usually are deceiving. The Sentha were no exception. They ruled a sizable empire and had a reputation as fierce warriors. Still, it was hard to see Jamar-Jalmar as threatening, and Tran hurried to meet him. She made the hand gesture that was equivalent to a smile. Jones had taught her well. “Know your mark,” he liked to say. “Especially XTs.” And Tran had done her homework. The voice synthesizer sounded even better than it had on the phone. “Hello, Ms. Arlo. Your body looks wonderful.” Tran smiled encouragingly. “And yours, Citizen Jamar-Jalmar. May I help with the suitcase?” The alien signaled a negative response. “There is no need, Ms. Arlo. The suitcase is empty.” The very thought of the suitcase and the money that would fill it made Tran weak in the knees. “Yes, well, jump in, and we’ll be off.” “It shall be as you say,” Jamar-Jalmar agreed, struggling to fit his large feet into the back of the cab. “We must trap this worker and ensure her punishment.” “I couldn’t agree more,” Tran said, thinking of Jones and closing the door. The auto-cab made its way through heavy traffic by squirting radio signals at lowly cargo carriers and ordering them out of the way. Jamar-Jalmar had plenty to say about the planet, the city, and the lack of Sentha-friendly services, so Tran let him roll. The vehicle stopped in front of the First Intersystems Bank, better known to those in the financial community as the FIB. Jones had chosen this particular branch because it served many of the city’s high rollers and the staff were accustomed to handling large amounts of cash. Tran pulled a credit card out of her pocket ran it through the vehicle’s scanner and accompanied the alien toward the bank. “Watch that door . . . It rotates.” The words came too late. Though supposedly XT accessible, the door had a distinctly human bias, so Jamar-Jalmar made two full rotations before Tran managed to pull him free. The lobby was a cavernous affair much given to marble and highly polished wood. Most sentients did their banking from home, but there were those who preferred to make transactions in person. A quick glance at the staff and customers revealed some barely hidden smiles but nothing more. Aliens, even clumsy aliens, were commonplace. Tran plastered a smile on her face and adopted the persona of the Good Samaritan. “You’re all right? Good. The window you want is right over there.” Tran approached a self-service terminal and entered a random series of numbers while the alien waddled up to the appropriate window. The teller was an attractive young woman of average height and build. Tran strained to hear the ensuing conversation. “Good afternoon, Citizen. How may I help you?” Jamar-Jalmar was reasonably smooth but had a tendency to offer extraneous information. “Good afternoon. Your body looks wonderful. An emergency has arisen. A large amount of cash is required.” The teller nodded pleasantly and gestured toward a species-neutral keyboard. “Of course. Please enter your account number, the amount you wish to withdraw, and your personal password.”

Jamar-Jalmar had surprisingly delicate three-fingered hands. They flew over the keyboard. The teller looked up from her transaction monitor and cleared her throat. “That is a rather large amount of cash. Could I offer you an electronic transfer or a cashier’s check instead?” “Thank you, but no,” Jamar-Jalmar replied. Tran held her breath and prepared to flee. If the teller summoned a manager and the manager asked the right questions, the con would come apart like wet cardboard. But the alien had all the necessary information and the teller was eager to please. “As you wish. Did you bring a container of some kind? If not, I can provide one.” Tran released her breath in a long, slow sigh. She was over the hump, or nearly so, and a block from easy street. Jamar-Jalmar passed the suitcase across the counter. The teller took it and went to get the cash. Tran looked out through the front window and saw an auto-cab pull up. A male passenger got out and took a moment to scan his surroundings. He was wearing a disguise, but Tran saw through it right away—Joman Jones! Come to case the bank prior to his meeting with JamarJalmar. That was a surprise. Tran wanted to run, but that would cede the game to Jones, so she did her best to suppress the fear and focus on the situation at hand. Suddenly she had it—or what might be it. Six steps carried her over to the spot where Jamar-Jalmar was waiting. As she touched the alien’s arm, Tran was conscious of the fact that Jones was in the process of passing through the rotating door. “Listen carefully . . . Ignore what happens next, leave via the side door, and go to a place called Mitzel’s Bistro. I’ll meet you there. Understand?” The alien was still forming his response when Tran turned and headed for the main entrance. Jones saw her and frowned. He was wearing a black wig, but there was no disgusing his chiseled features and perfect teeth. “Hey, baby . . . What are you doing here?” Tran shifted all her weight to her left foot, drew the right one back, and kicked Jones in the balls. He swore, grabbed his crotch, and fell to his knees. The next few seconds were a desperate blur as Tran pushed her way through the door and blundered into a woman on the street. Then she ran—and ran some more. After a block or so, she looked back over her shoulder. There were no signs of pursuit. She turned a corner and slowed to a walk. The next few minutes were spent entering and exiting stores, always on the lookout for trouble. Time was of the essence because Jones was pretty, but he was tough, too, and would be back on his feet in no time. Tran flagged an auto-cab and jumped inside. “Mitzel’s Bistro, and step on it.” The machine heard, paused to let a truck pass, and pulled into traffic with the same caution it always employed. Cargo carriers had to get out of its way, but the streets were congested and progress was slow. Finally the vehicle pulled up in front of Mitzel’s. Tran ran one of three stolen credit cards through the machine’s scanner, swore when the piece of plastic was seized, and barely made it outside before the onboard computer locked the doors. It would have been nice to put some distance between herself and her most recent crime, but time was ticking away. Tran approached the restaurant and stepped inside. The maître d’ recognized her immediately. “How nice to see you again. A table for one?” Tran forced a smile. “Thank you, but I’m meeting someone, a Sentha named Jamar-Jalmar.” “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Follow me.” Tran followed the maître d’ toward the rear of the restaurant. Jamar-Jalmar was easy to

spot. He was standing, for one thing, his well-rounded torso sticking under the tabletop, while a row of six-legged insects advanced toward his waiting beak. Tran winced as the alien speared one of the creatures. Then he rapped it against the tabletop and ate the resulting mess. The Sentha spied Tran at that point and wiped his beak on the already stained tablecloth. “Ms. Arlo! I was hungry so I ordered some appetizers. Would you care for one? They’re riper than I prefer but tasty nonetheless.” Tran wondered why the little creatures were so eager to be eaten—and decided she didn’t want to know. A waiter brought a stool and Tran took advantage of it. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry at the moment, but you go ahead.” The alien speared another of his seemingly willing victims and whacked it on the table. “So,” Tran said, trying to sound calm. “How did it go?” The Senthas had no cultural prohibition against speaking with their beaks full. Tran had to avert her eyes as Jamar-Jalmar sprayed food into the air along with his words. “It was exciting! Beings said and did all sorts of unusual things. Mr. Jones made horrible noises, sentients chased you, and my teller was quite distracted. May I ask why you chose to attack Mr. Jones?” “It was an act,” Tran replied. “A distraction. You got the money?” “Of course,” the alien replied, as small bits of carapace dribbled onto the formerly white tablecloth. “The suitcase is under the table.” Tran extended a foot and encountered something solid. A feeling of warmth suffused her body. “You did a wonderful job.” The alien belched. “Thank you.” “Well,” Tran said, noticing that her throat felt dry, “I don’t want to keep such a large amount of cash around any longer than necessary. With your permission, I’ll take the suitcase back to the office. Then I’ll check the serial numbers and return the contents to you. Would six o’clock be convenient?” “Extremely so,” Jamar-Jalmar replied. “I will await your arrival.” Tran gestured her thanks and slid off the stool. Her hand shook as it reached for the suitcase. The money was surprisingly heavy. “Thanks! I’ll see you soon.” ••• Jamar-Jalmar waved cheerfully, speared another hors d’oeuvre, and watched her leave. It occurred to him that humans were a strange race that was prone to excessive activity and rather highly strung. On Sentha the authorities would have bypassed the entire evidencegathering process in favor of a quick execution. Ah, well. Aliens. Who can explain them? Jamar-Jalmar broke his latest morsel on the tabletop, took a bite, and sent the mouthful down to stomach number three. ••• Once the bell bot exited her hotel room, Tran activated the security system and took her clothes off. Then she padded into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She had pert breasts, a flat stomach, and nice legs, all important assets. Thus reassured, she slipped into the shower and triggered a blast of hot water. Ten minutes later she emerged from the shower, lit a stim stick, and entered the sitting room. The suitcase was right where she’d left it, just begging to be opened. But she was determined to eat first in order to prolong the pleasure. So she put on one of the hotel’s robes, ordered dinner, and waited for the auto-cart to arrive. Once it did, she allowed the device to enter the room. The meal consisted of steak and lobster, one of her favorites. As she ate, Tran

caressed the suitcase with her eyes. Finally, having consumed the meal, she went over to stand in front of the suitcase. Fear flooded her belly. What if it was all part of an elaborate counterscam, a trick by Joman Jones? What brought him to the bank anyway? Was it caution or something else, a ruse that only his bent mind would think of? Fingers fumbled at catches. A nail broke. Tran swore and something clicked. The lid popped open. She lifted it up and out of the way. Stacks of money appeared. They stood shoulder to shoulder like soldiers on parade. Twenty or thirty holographic likenesses of President IgnuBaratha waved 3-D feelers in her direction, as photosensitive audiothreads were activated and tiny voices whispered their denominations. “Greetings on behalf of the president. I’m a twenty. I’m a hundred. I’m a fifty.” Tran listened to the chanting for a moment and told the money to shut up. It obeyed. She grabbed a stack with each hand and held them high. As she let go, rectangles of pink plastic fluttered, whirred, and circled her head. The money was everything she could ever want, and it was all hers—unless someone took it away, just as she had taken it from Jamar-Jalmar. What felt like ice water flowed through her veins. It was time to work on the next stage of the con. She needed a place to hide. Tran put the cash back in the suitcase and flopped down in front of the vid set. There were 1,267 channels to choose from. Among them were the left-handed bike riders’ channel, the sleep apnea channel, and the puppy channel. She was searching for travel programs when the matchmaker channel caught her eye. Bingo! What she needed was a chump—a mark like Jamar-Jalmar. Only one that chewed with his mouth closed. Dozens of images appeared and were rejected. Eventually one of the entries caught her eye. She said, “Play.” The video showed a vast wheat field waving in a gentle breeze. It looked soft and peaceful against an azure sky. That shot dissolved to waves lapping on a pristine beach. Tran heard a man’s voice, and as she thumbed the volume up she caught him in midsentence. “ . . . a rather attractive planet.” As the water vanished, a handsome man of African descent appeared. He was standing in front of a white house. It was large and appeared to be well maintained. “And this is where I . . . we would live,” the man said. “It’s a big house with every possible convenience. I’m gone a lot during the day, and I have to travel sometimes, but I would spend as much time with you as I could.” The man shrugged and looked slightly embarrassed. “So, if you’d be interested in marrying a man like myself and living on an agricultural planet, please contact me via intersystem e-mail. My name is Rogan. Dan Rogan. And my address is: DR@Calag4782/X-C-Sec4/7854. I look forward to hearing from you.” Tran hopped to the beginning of the segment and watched it again. “Study the mark”— that’s what Jones had taught her, and she would. But her mind was made up. No one, but no one, would expect Jennifer Tran to take refuge on an ag planet. Rogan’s voice turned into a comforting drone as she fell asleep.

Chapter T hree

Company Private —Do not disclose without prior permission— “So, after review by the Design, Engineering, Quality Control, and Product Management teams, we conclude that while one out of six hundred and forty-seven Model AT0892 utility droids will suffer command and control anomalies during the first two years of operation, 94.2% of these malfunctions will occur after the standard warranty has elapsed, creating an additional revenue stream for the company’s Repair and Retrofit Market Unit.” (Excerpted from Unidroid Inc. internal document TS-M2039-457.)

Calag Planet 4782/X followed the tracks along the ravine and up the side of a scree-covered hill, and R ogan paused at the top. The twelve-foot-tall exoskeleton allowed him to tower over most of the surrounding vegetation and see the ground ahead. There had been no attempt to hide the tracks, so they were easy to read. Like all but the most sophisticated of his brethren, the runaway robot had a limited capacity to improvise the way a human might have. And it wasn’t programmed to run and hide. However, while that made the machine easy to track, catching the metallic bastard was going to be more difficult. Thanks to the HT, or “human type,” body configuration, the machine was highly mobile, and unlike its human pursuer, it never had to eat, sleep, or pause to take a pee. Rogan had been chasing the droid for six hours now, ever since the machine had gone bonkers in the middle of a rutabaga-packing plant and crated four of its coworkers for shipment to Mechnos 3. Traveling at an estimated speed of thirty miles an hour, the runaway machine had covered a good two hundred and ten miles since then, and so had Rogan. The exoskeleton had done most of the work, but the human was tired nonetheless. Now, based on twenty-twenty hindsight, Rogan realized that he should have taken the truck instead of the ES. But the assumption had been that he would catch up with the errant robot within a mile or two. Wrong. He touched his com link. “Wally?” Two hundred and fifty miles above the planet’s equator, and two thousand miles to the east, the cyborg closed a mental relay. Video blipped as one minisat moved out of position and handed the task off to one of its electromechanical brethren. The international orange exoskeleton had a distorted appearance when viewed from above. “Yeah?” “Got anything?” •••

Wally used the minisat’s infrared sensor to sweep the area directly to the east of Rogan’s position. Nothing . . .nothing . . . Wait a minute. What the hell was that? Wally brought the tracking reticule back, found the telltale blob of heat, and tracked it toward a nearby lake. “Got it. The SOB is about a mile due east of your position. Heading for lake NH-Q18-2431. Wait a minute. Yup, there’s no doubt about it. It flipped you the bird.” ••• Rogan made an appropriate noise, checked his heads-up display (HUD), and took another eight-foot step. Servos whined as his right foot hit loose rock and slipped. Fortunately the other pod was on solid ground and he was able to recover. Each movement of his arms and legs was measured by the exoskeleton’s onboard computer and duplicated. Walking around in the ES had seemed strange at first but not anymore. Now the machine felt like an extension of himself. The hill and the stream that fed lake NH-Q18-2431 were part of a computer-designed water retention and distribution system. The slope ended and the ground leveled out. Rogan took advantage of the opportunity to increase his pace. Shock absorbers helped to smooth the ride, but he still felt the impact as each foot pod hit the ground. Brush whipped against the exoskeleton’s lower extremities and left scratches in the machine’s orange paint. In spite of the extra foam that Rogan had taped to critical contact points, hours of pressure had opened sores on his shoulders and hips. Rogan caught glimpses of the lake through the trees. It was small and seemed to turn gray as clouds drifted across the sun. The link was on. “Wally?” The cyborg switched his attention from the coffee harvest on an island called SH-422 to the minisat closest to Rogan’s position. The cloud deck blocked his view. “Yeah? What’s up?” “I’m approaching the lake. See anything?” “Nope. Some clouds are in the way.” “Shit.” “Yup, that’s the stuff the universe is made of.” “Thanks for nothing.” “Anytime.” Rogan followed the tracks through a scattering of genetically modified evergreens and out onto a rocky beach. The impressions were easy to spot and led straight into the water. There were no signs of the robot. Not even a bubble. Rogan waded out into the water and stopped when the bottom shelved steeply downward. He looked but couldn’t see through the glassy surface. “Hey, Wally . . .The crazy son of a bitch drowned itself in the lake.” Wally called up the specs for the HT5643/B and scanned them. “No such luck, old buddy. The 43/B comes equipped for submersible vat repair and cleaning assignments. You’d better get around to the other side of the lake. Your friend should emerge ten to fifteen minutes from now.” Rogan eyed the shore. There were sections of gravel-covered beach interrupted by steep banks, rocky outcroppings, and marshy areas. No wonder the robot had elected to cross the lake bottom. It would take Rogan the better part of an hour to walk, wade, and bushwhack his way to the other side. But there was no choice, so he set off. The trip was even worse than Rogan had thought it would be. He hadn’t gone far when sheer cliffs forced him out into the water, where thick mud slowed his progress. Rogan swore,

servos whined, and the smell of overheated machinery filled the air as the exoskeleton battled its way forward. That made the human wonder how the robot was doing. Did the mud extend out into the middle of the lake, or did a nice layer of hard rock form an expressway to the other side? There was no way to tell. If the mud was a problem, the marsh was pure hell. The ground was thick with rotting vegetation and unexpected sinkholes, which he stumbled into twice. On both occasions the weight of the exoskeleton pulled him down, and it was a battle to climb up and out. Pieces of weeds hung off the ES as it lurched onto a stony beach. The next hour passed slowly, but after a hundred cuts and scratches, and three detours into the lake, Rogan emerged victorious. Well, sort of victorious, since the robot was long gone by the time he arrived on the other side of the lake. Rogan shook his head in disgust. Logic dictated that he let the machine wander until its power pack gave out. But having invested that much time and energy in the chase, he wasn’t about to give up. Where was the 43/B headed anyway? Did it have a destination or was it wandering aimlessly around the countryside? Had Rogan been aboard the grav truck, he could have called on any number of computers for help. But the exoskeleton wasn’t equipped for that sort of thing. Rogan freed an arm long enough to touch the com link. “Hey, Wally . . . Wake the hell up.” The cyborg’s synthesizer produced a sound similar to that of an Alhanthian swamp beast passing gas. Rogan climbed a rocky slope. Little bits of freshly chipped rock showed the path the robot had taken. “Same to you, electron breath. How ‘bout earning your salary for once? Take a look at where I’ve been and tell me where I’m going—assuming my course makes any sense.” Wally retrieved the necessary data and plotted it on a three-dimensional map. “Bingo, my mud-encrusted friend. You’re straight-lined for the ocean.” Rogan crested the hill and picked his way down the reverse slope. It seemed as though the robot had a destination—one that was at least fifty miles away. Rogan spent the next half hour thinking of increasingly gruesome ways to punish the errant machine, the problem being that it wouldn’t care. Bit by bit the countryside began to change. Low-lying hills gave way to rich farmland. It was fallow at the moment but slated for production during the following year. Of course, arable land is never empty of life. Once the massive robo-tillers had come and gone, windblown seeds had landed and taken root. Grasses were especially good at that sort of colonization, and Rogan found himself walking through large patches of Blue grama 6.2, also known as Bouteloua gracilis 6.2, an improved version of a plant once found in the middle part of the North American continent on old Earth. Rogan expected the robot to turn and head off in another direction, but the trail ran straight toward the ocean. And it couldn’t be far away, because a Sea Avian Type 3.1 was circling above him. The SAT produced a screech reminiscent of an unoiled screen door. The tech heads, working in an unholy alliance with the suits, had decided that three bird species would be more than sufficient for the planet’s highly controlled ocean/land ecosystemic interface. Rogan would have favored more variety—to look at if for no other reason—but the suits weren’t going to authorize ten species if three could handle the job. Expense control is important, Rogan thought as he watched the bird circle overhead. But why make them so damned ugly? The bird in question was a rather awkward-looking creature with dull gray feathers and a tubby body. It produced a grating screech as it banked to the south.

The sea was visible by that time, sparkling beyond the softly rounded dunes. The robot’s tracks led straight for the water beyond. Rogan had a momentary vision of the robot marching straight into the surf, along the ocean’s bottom, and then what? Springing a leak? Falling into an underwater canyon? Anything but emerging from the other side, since the machine’s power pack would give out before then. Rogan lengthened his strides. The grass grew thinner, turned into Botha 7.8, and grew in hardy little clumps. The pods sank slightly as loam turned to sand and dunes rose to either side. As the exoskeleton passed between a couple of dunes Rogan saw the robot. It was sitting much as a man might on a sun-bleached log. The android made no attempt to escape as the human came near. It just sat there, chin on fist, staring out to sea. Patches of the machine’s beige plastiskin were white where the finish had worn off. Rogan put the exoskeleton on standby, released his harness, and lowered himself to the ground. A breeze pushed its way in from the sea and chilled his sweaty skin. Sand shifted under Rogan’s boots as he trudged over to the spot where the robot was seated. Strangely, after the anger he’d felt earlier, Rogan was calm. Or tired. Not that it made any difference. “You led me on quite a chase.” The robot looked at him, then back toward the sea. The Unidroid corporation had seen no reason to equip a utility droid with nonverbal expressive capabilities. And Calag Inc. had seen no need to pay for an upgrade it didn’t need. The result was a blank face. “Yes, I suppose I did.” Rogan sat down next to the robot, grabbed a fistful of sand, and let it dribble through his fingers. “The lake thing threw me for a loop.” The droid glanced in his direction and Rogan had a feeling that it would have smiled had it been capable of that—another sign of how messed up it was. “Really? I’m glad.” Rogan gestured toward the ocean. A long bluish green wave rolled in, broke, and surged up the steeply sloping beach. “So why did you run?” The droid shrugged. “I was tired of working all day, every day, without breaks.” Rogan frowned. “Breaks? Robots don’t get breaks. Or salaries or vacations. That’s why the company uses them.” “That’s what I’m saying . . . We work all day to harvest the crops and ship them. So we deserve breaks.” “That’s crazy.” “Sez you,” the android said resentfully. “But that’s to be expected. You’re the man . . . and that’s how you were programmed.” Rogan couldn’t believe that the conversation was taking place. How could such a thing be possible? And why did he feel defensive? He hadn’t been programmed. Or had he? Albeit in a different way. He struggled to focus on the problem at hand. “Okay . . . You were tired. But why come here? In fact, why go anywhere at all?” The robot was silent for a moment. “Who knows? It could have been some sort of random command and control error. All I know is that I had heard about the ocean and wanted to see it.” Rogan looked out at the water. A long procession of waves rolled in and chased one another onto the beach. It looked lovely, but Rogan knew that where he saw beauty, the suits saw a gigantic heat and moisture exchanger, not to mention a source of water. “So,” he inquired, “now that you’ve seen the ocean, what do you think?” The robot stared at the horizon. “I’m disappointed. The shop steward told me it was beautiful. All I see is a lot of wind-driven water.”

Rogan frowned. “The shop steward? Which droid are you referring to?” The 43/B looked the human in the eye. “I don’t remember.” The robot was clearly having the electronic equivalent of a mental breakdown—and that made the machine dangerous. Rogan had no choice but to deactivate it. He spent a split second wondering if the droid was going to resist but put the thought aside. Rogan figured that if the robot was going to put up a fight, it would have done so by then. He realized that such a thing was supposed to be impossible. Of course, androids weren’t capable of running away either. Rogan reached for the back of the robot’s neck, then hesitated. “I’m going to deactivate you.” The machine made no effort to interfere or escape. “I understand.” Rogan reached over, flipped a small access plate out of the way, and thumbed the robot’s emergency shutoff switch. The machine slumped forward and fell facedown in the sand. Rogan paused for a moment and touched his com link. “Mission accomplished. Send a recovery unit.” High above the planet, and sealed inside his metal body, Wally obeyed. Rather than hike all the way back on the exoskeleton, Rogan decided to wait for the grav barge to arrive. It was shaped like a disk, about thirty feet across, and open to the weather. With help from another 43/B, the human managed to drag the runaway aboard. With that accomplished, he marched the ES onto the barge and ordered it to take him home. The trip took more than an hour, just right for a windblown nap on the hard deck. Rogan had the droid transferred to his workshop, ordered Bob to perform maintenance on the much abused exoskeleton, and entered the house. Rogan had his first drink before he hit the shower, downed the second before he ate dinner, and was halfway through the third by the time he opened his e-mail. There was the usual amount of crap, most of which could be deleted. What remained were messages from suits who wanted something, suits who didn’t like something, and suits who were sending him copies of memos to cover their asses. Then, just as Rogan neared the end of the list, a real honest-to-god personal message popped up. Video rippled and a woman appeared. She was of Asian descent and very attractive. Her voice had a husky quality that Rogan liked. “Hello, Dan. My name is Jennifer Tran. I saw your personal and was very impressed. I don’t know about marriage. Not just yet anyway. But I like the fact that you’re willing to make a commitment. I’d like to meet you and get acquainted. Who knows what will happen after that? Your planet is very beautiful. How does one get there anyway? Money’s no problem . . . but I can’t find a deep-space line that lists Calag 4782/X as a destination.” The woman looked down, then up, as if slightly embarrassed. Her voice was wistful. “I imagine you’re knee-deep in applicants, so don’t worry about getting back to me.” Nothing Jennifer Tran could have said would have endeared her to him more. By simultaneously appealing to Rogan’s ego and sympathetic nature, she had him hooked. Rogan laughed joyously, danced around the room, and poured himself another drink. It took two hours to draft his reply, rewrite it six times, and send it off. Then it was time to brush his teeth and wobble off to bed. ••• Wally, watchful as always, read the message and fell into a blue funk. Company was on the way, and like it or not, Rogan’s world was about to change.

Chapter Four Linguistic anthropology is the study of spoken, written, or signaled language in sentient cultures and is key to an understanding of other civilizations. (Excerpted from the Xeno Anthropologist’s Handbook, 2nd edition, Multimedia Matrix 7.2, Reference code NFH 8376.1.)

Aboard Hudu ship 346 the name Matti Meyers had assigned to the diminutive male, turned and waved her L eo, forward. Like most adult Hudu, Leo stood about three and a half feet tall and had a protruding snout. Being of early middle age, the Hudu had skin that was only slightly too large for his body. It hung around him like a badly tailored suit. He had two arms, two legs, and a notoriously short temper. His voice came across as a series of high-pitched squeaks and twitters that Meyers could only partially hear. The rest of it was high-frequency stuff that didn’t register on her ears but was captured for her by the specially designed corder that hung from her shoulder. Understanding Leo was easy thanks to a pair of earbuds and the translator that dangled from her neck. “The Meyers female is very slow and awkward. The gifts will be gone by the time she arrives.” Meyers tried to imitate the Hudu’s direct, almost insulting style. “The human female apologizes for interposing herself between the Leo male and his limitless greed.” Where a human would have been offended, the Hudu smiled. The smile was filled with lethallooking teeth. Insulting repartee was a Hudu specialty and a source of considerable enjoyment. It was just one of the many cultural norms Meyers had set out to understand and document. The problem wasn’t what to study, but where to start, since she was the only anthropologist ever allowed to live aboard a Hudu ship. It was an exciting opportunity. Leo disappeared under what looked like a low-hanging vine but was actually something else. A power cable? Communications line? Possibly. The deck and bulkheads sparkled as he passed and faded soon after; Meyers followed him. Outside the areas lit up by phosphorescence, the light was dim, and even though the anthropologist had passed through this part of the ship before, she found the endless arches, buttresses, pillars, and tunnels confusing. The Hudu had been using such ships for thousands of years and claimed they didn’t know who or what had manufactured them—assuming that “manufactured” was the right word. Based partly on Hudu myths and partly on her failure to find a single seam, weld, or other fastener on the vessels she’d been allowed to board, Meyers believed the Hudu ships had been extruded rather than built—not by a conventional factory but by a highly specialized organism. The way a chicken lays eggs. Was the creature sentient? Maybe. If she was right, it was a huge discovery—one that could make her reputation and ensure funding for future projects. Of course, there was very little evidence to support her thesis—and more than one professor had commented on what they saw as Meyers’s tendency to jump to

conclusions. Still, the thesis would explain why all five hundred and twenty-four artifact ships seemed to be identical—so much so that the Hudu often referred to them in the singular, as “the ship.” Of course a factory could produce identical products too . . . so it was too early to know. DNA testing might provide some answers, but the Hudu wouldn’t allow it. As Leo entered one of the ship’s wandering passageways, Meyers was able to follow the Hudu’s phosphorescent wake. It glittered and glowed as if pleased that living organisms had passed that way. Then with an abruptness typical of the ship’s design, Meyers found herself in a huge compartment jammed to overflowing with thousands of Hudu—the full complement of the eight vessels presently traveling in company, minus watch keepers and the very young. To an unschooled eye, they would have seemed to be jumbled together, a hodgepodge of leathery bodies. But Meyers knew her hosts were standing in family groupings, the exact nature of which she was still trying to understand. The ship acknowledged their presence and seemed to celebrate with a nonstop display of phosphorescent pyrotechnics. Most of those from the other ships had never seen the human before. They stared at Meyers and spoke to each other in squeaky high-pitched voices. The Hudu had alphanumeric pitch-differentiated identifiers that defied even the translator’s considerable abilities to render them understandable, so Meyers gave each individual she met a nickname. The Hudu seemed not in the least offended by this practice, and some had even taken to using the names among themselves. Meyers felt more than a little guilty about that since she was there to study their culture, not alter it, but such had been the unintentional consequences of anthropological studies for hundreds of years. Still, Meyers told herself, the Hudu were full-fledged members of the Confederation, and subject to a variety of external influences anyway. Scanning the room, Meyers saw the elder she called Edith standing next to the host family’s dominant male. He was a trader of legendary prowess whom she called George. As he climbed up onto what looked like a small hillock, a hush fell over the crowd. Meyers checked the corder and translator to make sure that both were operating properly. The translation was somewhat wooden but clear. “Welcome to (our family’s) ship! Because we are such great traders, the ship can no longer hold (contain) our accumulated wealth. So, knowing that our less skilled brethren have hardly a (generic term for object of wealth) to their names, we decided to enrich their miserable lives.” The audience responded with a barrage of high-frequency sound, which the translator arbitrarily rendered as shouts of derision. And George, more than a little pleased by the strength of the response, produced a toothy smile. “But before we shower you with the incredible weight of our wealth, I would first like to introduce a special (guest having no familial status). She is known by the identifier ‘Meyers female.’” A forest of arms shot into the air, and George acknowledged one with a high-pitched twitter. The Hudu was young and very formal. “Many beings (of no familial status) have sought permission to travel with us. Why this (not especially attractive) one?” “An excellent question,” George said sagely, “and deserving of an answer. Most if not all of you are aware that because we live aboard ships of mysterious origins and spend most of our lives traveling through space, other races know very little about us. Ignorance breeds fear, and fear limits trade. So we found ourselves in a state of (needing) wanting. “The Meyers female was the first being (of no familial status) to understand this racial

(market) need and offer a (product) solution to meet it. By studying our race and making the results of that study widely known, the Meyers female proposes to provide other beings (of no familial status) with accurate (self-serving) information about us. That should produce the beneficial effect of reducing their level of ignorance and preparing the way for increased trade.” “Yes,” the youngster said suspiciously, “but what’s in it for her?” “Ah,” George responded approvingly, “your elders have taught you well. What indeed? The answer lies in the Meyers female’s status as a scholar (buyer and seller of cultural data). As the only source of information about our race, she will have a competitive advantage.” “And name her own price until others are able to enter the market,” the female said thoughtfully. “I approve.” “Thank you,” George said dryly. “And now, knowing that our guests can hardly wait to get their (tool graspers) on everything we own, (unpronounceable) will distribute the arrival gifts.” Meyers was amazed by what ensued. The crowd stirred, then parted to allow a procession of grav carts to wind their way to the center of the vast compartment. They bobbed slightly in response to irregularities in the deck. Each cart was heaped to overflowing with tangible wealth. There were piles of gold bars, gemstones of every description, and much, much more. It was the Living in the Now Family’s entire wealth, minus the theoretical value of their ship and some working capital with which to start over. Meyers knew that by giving all of it away and reducing themselves to near penury, the family would acquire tremendous social prestige—which would gradually wear away and disappear when another family did the same thing. Then the loss of status would stimulate the first family to build yet another fortune, and so forth, until something came along to disrupt the status quo. Viewed from a surface perspective, the ritual was little more than one family’s attempt to achieve momentary social superiority over the others. But Meyers thought the ritual might have a deeper, more important purpose as well. The continual shifting of wealth and social status might prevent the formation of a permanent underclass and thereby serve to stabilize Hudu society. It was also worth noting that while a tremendous amount of wealth changed hands, or tool graspers as the case might be, it went to other Hudu, which meant that capital stayed within the larger racial “family,” a practice that helped maintain Hudu trading superiority and accounted for some of the resentment expressed by other races. A cry of almost universal greed was heard, and a melee ensued. Light glittered off gold, jewels, and other precious objects as the guests fought to obtain more than their fair share. Bags brought for that purpose were stuffed to overflowing. Scuffles developed over loose gemstones while the Family That Lives in the Now watched approvingly. Meyers fed video to the corder by means of the tiny wide-angle distortion-free lens affixed to her shoulder tab and took verbal notes via the boom mike in front of her lips. She was fascinated by the fact that the Hudu kept tangible wealth on hand in an age when almost everyone else used symbols of one type or another. Was that a quirk or something more? What if the Confederation folded and government-issued notes were suddenly worthless? Who would be least impacted? The Hudu, that’s who. Finally, after the last coin had been fought for and won, George signaled for silence. “And now that you have filled your coffers with our wealth, we invite you to fill your bellies (digestive organs) with our food. The feast awaits.”

Since the Family That Lives in the Now’s ship was nearly identical to the rest, everyone knew exactly where to go. And because most Hudu wanted to arrive first and consume the most, a full-scale stampede ensued. Meyers should have been prepared but wasn’t. A crowd of thousands turned and thundered in her direction. A set of tool graspers reached out to pull the anthropologist behind a pillar as the guests surged past. A voice twittered on the edge of her hearing. “Never get between a Hudu and a free meal.” Meyers looked down and found that the female she had named Alice and the elder she called Edith were standing next to her. It was Edith who had spoken. The anthropologist smiled, knowing the two races had that form of nonverbal communication in common. “The Meyers female thanks you.” Edith bowed slightly. An organ equivalent to a human heart was visible through her loose, almost translucent skin. It beat slowly, methodically, like an organic metronome. “What was your opinion of the ceremony?” “I thought it was fascinating,” Meyers answered honestly. “May I ask a question?” “Of course,” the elder said calmly. “Whatever you wish.” “The use of gold and gemstones as a store of wealth . . . is that ceremonial? Or insurance against the possibility that the Confederation might collapse someday?” The Hudu’s eyes were large and black. She blinked, and a pale, almost transparent film appeared, then disappeared. “An excellent question. We have chosen our storyteller (publicist) well. The answer is both. Back in ancient days, before the Hudu found the ship(s) and journeyed to the stars, we had no need for symbolic value. One’s wealth totaled what was in one’s purse or was locked in the family vault. Now, in our role as traders, we deal with symbolic wealth all the time. But to give each other wealth that has no heft would be to lessen the value of the gift. Besides, what Hudu in his or her right mind would place value in a piece of paper? Or a square of plastic?” It took Meyers a moment to realize that the last had been a joke, and she laughed appreciatively. “And the governmental aspect? That’s a concern as well?” Alice twittered her amusement. “You bet your sitter downer it is. The Confederation is stable at the moment, but our prognostications suggest that the present state of affairs won’t last forever. The Hudu stand ready to profit no matter what happens.” Meyers thought the reply was honest but less than tactful. Other races could be and probably would be offended. That wasn’t her problem, however. She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, the Meyers female thanks you.” “And we thank you,” Edith replied formally. “Now, if you are willing to forgo the feast, the rest of the elders would like to meet you.” If the free-for-all she had just witnessed had been amazing, the anthropologist figured the feast would be even more spectacular—especially if there was a food fight—so she hated to miss it. But she knew the elders were an extremely important force in Hudu society and what had been framed as a casual invitation amounted to a summons. She forced a smile. “I’d be honored to meet the elders. Please lead the way.” Edith signaled agreement as if she had expected nothing less and took her seat in the small grav chair. As she guided it across the now empty meeting hall, Meyers and Alice hurried to keep up. Tons of trash had been discarded and left behind, but not a single coin, gem, or pearl could be seen. Phosphorescence exploded upward and outward as the ship celebrated their passage, and a forest of strange organic shapes rose all around them. The anthropologist passed structures

that looked like roots in a mangrove swamp or blood vessels in a monstrous body; some pulsed as if filled with fluid. Meyers was fairly sure she’d never passed that way before, so she tried to identify landmarks and remember them, but the landscape, if “landscape” was the proper word, was so strange that it was hard to memorize a single feature. Meanwhile Edith and Alice chattered about the successful “giving” and speculated on which clan would attempt to best them. Meyers took note of the fact that the Family that Lives in the Now had set a new record for the amount of wealth given away—something that would make it that much more difficult for their competitors to best them. Meyers was still considering the implications when the passageway opened into a steam-filled room. Edith disappeared into the mist as Alice touched Meyers’s arm. “Watch your step.” The anthropologist found herself in a large room dotted with what looked like individual hot springs—not just one or two, but dozens. All were occupied by two, three, or four skeletallooking elders. The hot springs were located on terraces that rose all around her, and bright green vegetation fed off the vapor-laden air and brought the otherwise gray environment a touch of much needed color. Grav chairs, towels, and other accouterments lay scattered all about. Edith had abandoned her vehicle and was lowering herself into a pool of bubbling water. “Our body temperatures decrease as we age,” Alice explained, “and the warmth feels good.” Meyers nodded, remembered that the motion meant nothing to Alice, and spoke instead. “Are the baths a natural aspect of the ship?” “No,” the Hudu replied, “they were installed (grown) about two hundred years ago.” Meyers resisted the temptation to nod and smiled instead. “Thank you.” “You are welcome,” Alice said formally. Her voice was softer than usual. “We must be silent and wait for the elders to speak.” Meyers took note of the fact that Alice had included herself in the prohibition against speech and wished she had a lot fewer clothes on; her khakis were damp and clung to her skin. The anthropologist recognized Edith’s twitter. “Greetings, birth mates. I bring the Meyers female (of no familial status) here that you might tell her about the final journey, for she has been chosen (hired) to record (publicize) our story.” Final journey? What was Edith referring to? Meyers felt adrenaline start to flow. Something important was about to take place. But what? Unlike many human cultures, the Hudu felt no need to speak continuously. Time stretched as water bubbled, vapor eddied, and Meyers waited. When the words finally came, it was from the far side of the room. It took her a moment to spot the male who uttered them. He looked old, very old, like the definition of age itself. “Does the human (female) understand how the first journey begins?” “No,” Meyers replied, “I do not understand.” There was another long silence, as if the male was gathering his thoughts. Finally, after a minute or so, he spoke again. “We, meaning the individuals you see before you, plus some of those on the other five hundred and twenty-four ships, were born within the same three-day period one hundred and ten years ago.” All the elders gazed at her with the same expectant look. They were waiting for her to process what had been said and react to it. Her mind did a slow stutter step and the translator rendered her words into a series of high-pitched squeaks. “If you were born within days of each of other—does that mean you will die within days of each other as well?” The reply came quickly this time. “Yes, Meyers female (of no familial status), that is exactly what it means. The final journey has begun. We will die (terminate trading activity) within thirty

standard days.” Meyers looked around. She saw Edith and hundreds more. They, plus those on the other ships, would die at the same time. She felt a lump form in her throat and forced it down. “I’m sorry.” Another elder, a female this time, stood and looked Meyers in the eye. Water cascaded off her emaciated body. “There is no reason for sorrow. We have accumulated vast wealth, given it away, and accumulated yet again. All journeys must end—and, in ending, start anew. You must come and witness our passing so that others will come to know and understand us.” Meyers looked at Alice, received no help, and looked back. “Where? Where will the great dying take place? On your home world?” The elder lowered herself into the steaming-hot water, and Alice spoke for the first time. “No. Our home world hasn’t been habitable for thousands of years. Before long, all five hundred and thirty-two ships will drop into orbit around a planet we call Peace. The dying will commence shortly thereafter.” Meyers wanted to ask more questions, but the audience was clearly over, and Alice led her away. Later, in the privacy of her own quarters, the anthropologist had time to think—and, more than that, to feel lonely. The Hudu were charming in their own way, but they weren’t human, and months had passed since Meyers had heard a human voice. Fortunately she had the books and vids loaded onto her perscomp to help pass the time. But before returning to the bodice ripper she’d been reading, the anthropologist took a moment to look up the coordinates for the planet called Peace. What she discovered was that the world belonged to a large corporation—and was currently called Calag 4782/X. She imagined the planet, the corporate types who worked there, and smiled. Wait until the Hudu arrived! The people who ran the place were in for a surprise. She hoped they were human.

Chapter Five It seems strange that while in one species, the state of aloneness can provoke a deep sense of yearning, in others—the Xerapanth come to mind—the presence of another sentient within their hunting/breeding territory is next to intolerable. So much so that the entire race numbers less than a thousand individuals. Surely the great Mother/Father God must love diversity above all else. (Excerpted from Book of Musings by the Sentha poet/philosopher Mulu-Murlo.)

Calag Planet 4782/X

“I s not!” “Is so!” “Is not!” “Oh yeah? Well, I’m human, and what I say goes,” Rogan growled as he tapped a wrench against the harvey’s number twelve gearbox. “Why can’t you get it through your thick processor that it’s better to improvise a solution than to wait three months for a factory-made part?” The maintenance bot was far from convinced but knew enough to shut up and watch as Rogan tore the gearbox apart. Once the broken worm gear had been removed, he put the new one in. Though made to specs, it was the product of the computer-controlled lathe in his shop. After skinning his knuckles, Rogan replaced the cover and pumped number two lube into the box. It would have been nice to start the harvester remotely, but that was impossible until he completed the long journey up to the cab where he rewired the ignition. The modification wouldn’t help this time, but who knew? Maybe it would save some time later on. Once the changes were complete, he pressed a button. Starters whined, engines caught, and the harvey lurched forward. The homemade worm gear worked like a charm. Rogan watched the machine scoop huge brick-shaped potatoes out of the ground, grade them by size, and sort them into bins. Pleased by what he had accomplished, Rogan turned to confront the spider bot. “See? I told you so.” The robot was silent for a moment, as if considering the human’s comment. Its voice had a hard, grating sound. “The use of unauthorized parts will invalidate the harvester’s warranty and leave the company vulnerable to additional costs. Taking such risks runs counter to my programming. What if the Rogan-made part causes damage to the whole machine?” Rogan treated the robot to a look that would have killed a lesser creature. Robots weren’t supposed to talk back. “Should that occur, I will inform Purchasing that you went bonkers, fabricated the part yourself, and installed it without my permission.” The machine had more than met the imperatives of its programming and made no reply. Rogan chose to interpret the robot’s silence as victory. “Well, I guess that shut you up. Dismissed.” The machine was happy to escape the electronic angst created by conflicting commands and scurried away.

Wally’s voice was sardonic. “Nice work . . . You put that robot in its place.” Rogan ignored the cyborg’s tone. “Yeah, I guess I did. What an idiot. Any sign of the fleet?” Wally heaved an internal sigh. The fleet that Rogan referred to was the quarterly Calag Inc. pickup fleet. If past experience was any guide, it would consist of a command and control vessel, usually referred to as “the tug,” and between fifteen and twenty computer-controlled freighters. The freighters were huge boxlike affairs designed to transport large amounts of cargo at the lowest possible cost. They carried no crew and no pressurized spaces other than a single Life Support Module intended for emergencies. Once they arrived, the task of loading them within the company’s unrealistically short time frames would begin. Making the occasion all the more stressful was the fact that Jennifer Tran was due to arrive on the tug. Wally sent an electronic query to the tug’s navigational computer (navcomp) and received an almost instantaneous reply. He passed it on to Rogan. “The fleet should enter orbit fifteen hours, thirty-two minutes, and fifteen seconds from now.” Rogan felt his spirits soar. Jennifer was in-system! Everything was about to change. She would love the planet as much as he did. They would take long walks, swim in their own ocean, and lie under private stars. A careful exploration would ensue as each revealed more and more of his or her true self until knowledge gave way to passion and the certainty of a long-lasting marriage. He could hardly wait but sought to hide his excitement from Wally. “Thanks. I’m going to jump in the truck and check on the launcher.” The launcher, or rail gun, was one of Wally’s responsibilities and had been tested repeatedly over the last few days. But anything that kept Rogan busy for a while would constitute a blessing. Rogan climbed into the grav truck and took off. Sensors beeped as a flight of computercontrolled grav trucks came in from the south. They were heavy with loads of grain and flying at a fuel-efficient five thousand feet. They looked like little more than specks from a distance, but each one carried a thousand tons of grain. They were part of a fleet of vehicles that took to the air four times a year. For days now, hundreds of such craft had been shuttling back and forth between the far-flung processing plants where the produce was irradiated and the launcher where it would be boosted into space. The basic concept had been around for a long time. Spectacular though early shuttles had been as they rode tails of fire up through roiling clouds, they were terribly inefficient, especially when loaded with cargos like meat and potatoes. In fact the sort of shuttles used during the early part of the twenty-first century had been ninety-nine percent hull and fuel, and that’s why electromagnetic launchers, also known as rail guns, had been developed. Simply put, a rail gun consisted of a power source and two parallel rails, both made of conductive materials. The trick was to send a powerful electronic pulse down the rails, complete a circuit via the projectile itself, and create a magnetic field that would push the payload to the other end of the gun. The larger the power source and the longer the ramp, the greater the projectile’s velocity would be—and at five miles a second, it was relatively easy to put a small object into space. With that accomplished, it wasn’t long before scientists developed better heat shields and computer-controlled propulsion systems that could steer individual containers to orbiting freighters. Then, once they were close enough, an armada of garbage-can-sized tugs could push, shove, and coax them into waiting holds. As Rogan peered through his insect-spattered windscreen, a ramp-shaped mountain

loomed in front of him. It had been carved out of the planet’s crust during the terraforming process, and thanks to the fact that the rail gun was located ten thousand feet above sea level, it took twenty percent less power to operate. The planet’s air traffic control computer had very little to do during most of the year but was busy now. It’s voice was brisk and efficient. “Control to grav craft zero-zero-one. Your intentions, please.” “This is grav craft zero-zero-one. I’m inbound for launch control. Vector, please.” “Roger that, zero-zero-one. You have vector one-four-seven at ten thousand. Welcome to the neighborhood.” “One-four-seven at ten thousand. Roger that.” Rogan had enjoyed the fakey “welcome to the neighborhood” bit the first time he’d heard it, but that was a thousand interactions ago, and now it was getting old. Jennifer would say new things—things he hadn’t heard before—and the thought made him smile. The mountain looked huge now. The black basalt was dotted with hardy-looking trees that grew in clumps wherever soil collected on a ledge or in a crevice. Taken together, they helped to soften the man-made structure’s harsh angularity. Firing had commenced. As each cargo module was propelled upslope and launched into the sky, it looked like a quickly dwindling dot. Then, after three or four seconds, it was lost in the overarching blueness above. The truck shuddered as waves of displaced air struck it and sonic booms rumbled across the land. Rogan checked with launch control and was directed to landing pad zero-zero-one, which was off to one side and reserved for his use. The other pads, starting with zero-zero-two and running all the way through one-zero-zero, were stops on an enormous assembly line that snaked across the valley and disappeared into the mountain. Once inside, the trucks would be emptied, refueled, and dispatched for another load. The scale was enormous and involved a great deal of complicated equipment, but because it was used only eight weeks a year, there was plenty of time for maintenance, and malfunctions were rare. They weren’t unheard of, however, which was why Rogan wanted to see how things were going. Wally had a tendency to pooh-pooh such visits—but Wally didn’t have to deal with Sector Director Elvas Werkmor. The pad consisted of little more than a well-marked chunk of duracrete surrounded by the lights used for night landings. Rogan hovered to allow a train of six enormous grain haulers to pass. Then the truck bumped its way down through their wakes and slid toward the pad. Launch control activated a large flashing X and the grav truck’s navcomp offered to take over. Rogan frowned. Sometimes it seemed as if the goddamned machines thought humans were helpless. Who did they think had made them anyway? The tooth fairy? The grav truck touched down with what Rogan fancied was a very gentle thump. The door whined open, and a grav-equipped robot approached as Rogan stepped out. Though humanoid in appearance, the android had no need for legs, so they had been omitted, and even though Rogan had seen a thousand floating torsos, they never ceased to make him feel uncomfortable. Knowing that the robot might have to interact with VIPs from time to time, the technoids at Wareco had equipped the machine with Executive Interaction Skills 16.3. It was a rather slippery program written by an ex–public relations executive. “Greetings, Planetary Manager Rogan! What an unexpected pleasure. You look extremely fit. What sort of exercise regime do you follow?”

“I rip administrative androids into pieces and use the resulting chunks of metal as free weights,” Rogan replied. “That’s an excellent idea!” the robot replied enthusiastically. “Did you file a form eight-dotseven? That’s what the company’s suggestion plan is for, you know . . . sharing good ideas.” Rogan sighed. “Thanks . . . Now, shut up and get out of the way.” The robot did neither. In fact, it not only led the way but slipped into the VIP tour mode. “All that you see here represents the latest in technology. In fact, the Calag corporate vision statement, ‘High-quality food through the use of leading-edge technology,’ pretty well sums it up. Everything, including the planet and all of its ecosystems, was designed to deliver full value to customers and share owners alike. Take the weather, for example . . .” Unable to make the android shut up, Rogan did the next best thing and tuned it out. They had left the landing pad and were walking/floating along the access way that paralleled the gigantic conveyer belt. Having landed on the belt, the massive grav haulers dribbled bits of vegetable matter behind them as they were carried along. The warm, musky smell of freshly harvested crops filled the air and lifted Rogan’s spirits. Like millions of farmers before him, Rogan loved the look, the feel, and yes, the smell of the harvest. Okay, he was about two million tons short of making his wheat quota, but what farmer ever brought in what he or she hoped for? And what could be more worthwhile than feeding the hungry? Certainly not law, or accounting, or any of the other professions that came to mind. No, he had one of the best, if not the best, job in the Confederation. A warning Klaxon interrupted his thoughts. Rogan turned toward the droid in time to witness the switch from the VIP to the production mode. It stopped in midsentence, paused to “hear” some radio traffic, and sped down the access way. A real VIP might have been offended, but Rogan was pleased to see that the anonymous programmers had their priorities stacked in the right order. Production first, suits second. He started to run, but the flying torso soon disappeared around a curve. Rogan had to jog for half a mile before he caught up with the administrative droid. It was speaking to a trio of maintenance bots. “Don’t just stand there . . . Get to work!” “I have an idea,” one of the machines replied. “Why don’t you fix the problem? We’re on a break.” Rogan eyed the admin droid. “What’s going on here?” The torso pointed at a huge cargo hauler. “This unit is loaded with animal protein and the cooling system broke down. I ordered these droids to repair the hauler, but they refuse to do so in a timely way.” “They can’t refuse. They’re machines.” “They can’t refuse to work,” the admin droid agreed, “but their operating system allows them to determine how fast they work. And these droids are participating in what they call a slowdown.” “That’s right,” one of the robots put in. “We want paid maternity leave.” “And 801(k) plans,” another added. “Plus sick leave,” the third said earnestly. That was when Rogan realized that the runaway robot, the one he had been forced to chase all the way to the ocean, was part of much a larger pattern—a problem that couldn’t come at a worse time. “Okay,” Rogan said. “You’re unhappy. I get that. But we need to get this stuff off-planet or I’ll be looking for a job and you’ll be taking a break in a recycling bin.” “All right,” the first droid said. “Don’t get your panties in a knot. We’ll make the repair. But this

isn’t over.” Servos whined, power wrenches chattered, and the smell of ozone filled the air as the maintenance bots removed an access panel. The machines completed the repairs within fifteen minutes, bolted the access plate back in place, and left for their next assignment. The admin bot switched to the VIP mode and was about to resume the tour when Rogan turned and walked away. It was rude, but the android didn’t mind. Sentients were similar to the weather—unpredictable and frequently in the way. Rogan returned to the truck, dropped into the pilot’s seat, and took off without consulting the air traffic control computer. It was still complaining when Wally cut it off. “What’s up?” “We’ve got a problem. A big problem. A significant number of the robots are going bonkers.” “Bonkers?” “Yeah. They’re demanding benefits, staging slowdowns, and generally acting human.” “It sounds like a virus.” “Damned right it does. I’m on my way back to headquarters. I’ll hook the runner up, run some antivirus software, and see what happens. In the meantime I want you to prepare for a planetwide shutdown and reboot.” “You’ve got to be kidding. That would bring the whole shipping process to a halt. Corporate will go crazy.” “What choice to do we have? Even if the droids can’t strike, they can still bring us to our knees. So get ready.” “Okay, let me know what you find.” “Roger that.” Rogan felt a compelling sense of urgency as he completed the trip home and exited the truck. Normally Bob would have spidered out of the support building to greet him, but the lead robot was nowhere to be seen until Rogan entered the barnlike structure and saw the droid talking to its subordinates. “What the hell are you doing?” “We’re discussing the company’s sexual harassment policy,” Bob replied defensively. “Robots can’t have sex,” Rogan countered. “That’s true,” a robot named Judy agreed. “But our programming requires us to be conversant with all of the company’s policies and procedures.” Rogan sighed. “Bob will come with me. The rest of you can return to work.” There was a certain amount of grumbling as the robots returned to their tasks and Bob followed Rogan into the workshop. The runaway robot was laid out on the worktable in the middle of the room. The walls were lined with storage cabinets, a heavy-duty bench, and industrial-quality power tools. “Hook it up,” Rogan instructed. “We’re going to run every kind of diagnostic software we have on this unit.” “Okay,” Bob replied, “but I’m supposed to be on a break in twelve minutes.” Rogan sighed. “Shut up and connect the lead.” Bob opened the 43/B’s access panel, plugged a lead into port 1, and ran a quick check. “The connection is good. Do you want me to run the tests?” “No,” Rogan replied, “I’ll do it myself.” The next fifteen minutes were spent running a variety of diagnostic programs, and the results were unmistakable. He activated the link. “Wally . . .” “Yeah?” “You were right. It’s a virus. Something called Unionworm 87.6.” Wall produced a synthesized whistle. “That’s some bad shit . . . It sounds like somebody

found a way to get past our antivirus software. Remember the shipment of 81/Cs we received a few weeks back? How much you want to bet that at least one of them was corrupted?” “Put ‘em in electronic quarantine,” Rogan responded. “Then we can take a look. In the meantime shut everything down, overwrite every operating system on the planet, and boot us up. How long will it take?” “At least two hours.” “How long till the fleet arrives?” “Five hours and thirteen minutes, give or take three seconds.” “Okay, make it happen.” The sun was going down by then. The lights in the house were on but disappeared as Wally went to work. Rogan couldn’t see it but knew systems were going down all over the world. The rail gun was offline, harvesters stood motionless, and thousands of robots were frozen in place. The reboot should work. But what if it didn’t? He would have made a bad situation worse. The thought dogged Rogan as he entered the darkened house. He knew the layout by heart, so it was easy to find a glass and a bottle of Duncan’s Prime. He took them out onto the wraparound porch and sat in a rocking chair. It made a gentle creaking sound as Rogan poured a drink. The sun dipped below the horizon and darkness closed in around him.

Chapter Six The only thing worse than the danger of space travel is the monotony of it, especially when machines do most of the work and the crew are reduced to little more than low-paid backup organisms. There isn’t much to do aboard a tug, and we spent most of our time playing cards. (Excerpted from “A Star Sailor’s Story,” by Gabrielle Gianopoulos, Multimedia Matrix 30.8, Reference code NFH 4278.90.)

Calag Planet 4782/X Tran had all the money she could possibly use hidden away inside her almost Jennifer microscopic cabin. So why was she hard at work cheating the tug’s crew out of their hardearned pay? She wasn’t sure. Maybe the answer lay in one of the many lessons Joman Jones had taught her. “You gotta remember that suckers want to be fleeced. Why else would they trust a perfect stranger? Or risk their money when the odds are stacked against them?” Jennifer suspected the answer was a little more complicated than that but agreed with her ex-partner’s basic conclusion. If the suckers wanted to be fleeced, then it was her duty to fleece them, even if that meant acquiring money she didn’t really need. Shoals of blue cigar and stim stick smoke floated around their heads. Tran’s throat felt dry. She sipped some whiskey and took one last look at her electronic cards. Although the rectangles were as thin as their cardboard predecessors, they came equipped with highdefinition video screens. Each card had four different values, and a hand consisted of what was visible onscreen plus the next image in the queue. That’s why Rockets and Stars was such a complicated game. Tran placed her cards on the table next to some very crisp bank notes. “I’ll raise a thousand and see what you’ve got.” Tran had the All Seeing Eye, three Rockets, and a Planet Buster—enough to take the pot. Not a lot of money when compared to the amount in her stash but a serious stake for everyone else. The entire crew was seated around the heavily worn table at the exact center of the ship’s minuscule lounge. Light rayed down to illuminate the top half of their faces. The tug’s captain was a husky middle-aged woman who referred to herself as “Moms” Morko. She shifted a halfsmoked cigar from one side of her mouth to the other. The ship’s engineering officer, Randy “Red” Lewis, was located directly across from Tran. He was dressed in blue coveralls and winked at her as if they were party to a private joke. The tug’s astrogator was a cyborg named Billy “Bolts” Smith. He turned a vid cam in Tran’s direction. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of money.” Tran summoned her best sneer. “So? What’s the matter? Are you chicken?” “I don’t think so,” Bolts answered thoughtfully, “but with a body like mine, it’s hard to tell. A thousand it is.” The cyborg opened his chest cavity, reached inside, and removed a sheaf of crisp new bills. They whispered their individual denominations as he placed the pile on the table.

“Ditto,” Moms growled as she masticated her cigar. “I’m feeling lucky today.” Two gold wafers thumped the tabletop. Red shrugged apologetically as he pulled a wad of currency out of a pocket and counted some greasy bills onto the table. A layer of dirt covered their solar threads, so they remained silent. Tran nodded, added her own money to the pot, and touched the lower right corner of each card. It had taken three days to work her “sims” into the deck. The All Seeing Eye blinked but continued to stare as the Rockets melted into Comets and the Planet Buster morphed into a Supernova, the highest card there was. Tran grinned. “Read ‘em and weep.” Moms nodded, Bolts waved a tool arm, and Red smiled enigmatically. Tran felt a sudden hollowness at the pit of her stomach. Where was the shock? The disbelief? The anger? The answer quickly became apparent as each crew member touched the lower right corner of his or her cards. Moms had five supernovas, as did the others. That made sixteen supernovas in all. Twelve more than the deck allowed and a clear message: the crew knew their passenger was cheating and had chosen this way to say so. Tran was scared. What would they do? The answer was obvious: anything they wanted. It was their ship and she wasn’t supposed to be aboard. The only thing Tran had going for her was the illicit fare. Half had been paid up front, and half was due on landing. But what if the captain reneged and took the money? The crew could kill Tran and blow her body out through the main lock. Tran kept her hands in sight and waited for the crew to make the first move. Moms removed her cigar and examined the soggy end for defects. Finding none, she returned it to the corner of her mouth and squinted into the light. When she smiled, a hundred tiny lines appeared on her face. “Well, I’ll be damned. Three equal hands. Amazing. Whaddya say to a three-way split?” It seemed as though a three-way split was just fine with the rest of the crew—and Tran could do little more than watch as the crew split the pot three ways. She figured each member of the crew was pocketing more than a thousand credits of her hard-earned money. The bastards. As soon as the cash had disappeared, Bolts collected the cards, shuffled the deck, and scanned the other players. His tone was amiable. “Ready for another hand?” Tran slipped out of her chair and pretended to yawn. “Thanks, but no thanks. I need some shut-eye.” “Good idea,” Moms replied. “You wouldn’t want to miss your beauty sleep.” Tran checked the captain’s face for signs of sarcasm, but none were visible. She turned and left the lounge. Had she lingered a moment or turned to look back, she might have seen the one-finger salute directed at her back. Fortunately for Tran the fleet arrived at their destination sixteen hours later. She paid Morko, then was ushered onto a four-seat shuttle and ordered to strap in. The fact that Tran was seated immediately behind Morko made it difficult to see, but by craning her neck Tran could look out through the view port. The mostly brown planet was marbled with blue seas and white clouds. Though she was not a person to spend time thinking about beauty other than her own, the world was so heart-stoppingly perfect that even Tran took time to admire it. She wished there was a way to make a piece of jewelry that looked like that, something she could wear around her neck. The shuttle bumped down through layers of increasingly thick air. Clouds rose to envelope the shuttle in a momentary embrace before disappearing upward. A mountain range ran north

and south, its peaks as uniform as soldiers on parade. Plains rolled away to either side of it, they were green with vegetation, and a system of crisscrossing access roads split them into sections. It was, Tran realized, a world without cities. And that thought made her nervous. She’d been born in a city, raised in a city, and with only a few brief exceptions lived her entire life in cities. What the hell would she do here—on a world populated by machines and a single glorified farmer? Hide, that’s what, she told herself grimly. Hide until it’s safe to leave. The bag containing the money was under her seat. By straining against her harness, Tran could touch the black ballistic nylon and take comfort from it. Yes, the relative safety of the ag planet was worth the price. She would be nice to the sodbuster, keep a low profile, and live for the day when she could escape. The captain’s voice came over her headset. “Hang on . . . We’re coming in for a landing.” Tran saw the ground come up and prepared herself for a jolt that never came. ••• Moms made a perfect three-point landing and turned onto the apron. A single person stood waiting. Rogan wore a flowery sport shirt, freshly pressed slacks, and a silly grin and held a ragged-looking bouquet in front of him. The flowers looked as though they had been pulled directly out of the ground. Moms killed the engines, released the external hatch, and followed Tran to the door. She watched Tran descend the robo-stairs, cross the apron, and say something to Rogan. That was when the PM kissed Tran on the cheek and gave her the flowers. Moms smiled as he offered to carry the black bag and Tran refused. Rogan waved and Moms waved back. She liked Rogan and was normally invited to dinner. Not today, however. Three, as they say, is definitely a crowd. Moms watched the couple enter a beat-up grav truck. Had it been washed? Yes, she thought it had, just the first of many changes in Rogan’s life. The truck lifted, banked steeply, and headed east. Moms felt for a cigar, found one in her breast pocket, and stuck it in the corner of her mouth. She checked to make sure her shuttle was being fueled before returning to the cockpit. A tone sounded. Moms touched a button. “Yeah?” “Hi, Moms. This is Wally.” “Hi, Wally. It looks like the reboot worked.” “Yeah . . . There were about a dozen units that failed to boot up, but we’ll deal with them later.” “So you killed the worm?” “For the moment . . . But the bigger question remains. Why didn’t our antiviral software identify and kill it? The security nerds have some explaining to do.” “Sounds like it,” Moms agreed. “How’s the loading going?” “We’re running about three hours behind schedule. Other than that, things are going well.” Moms nodded. “Great . . . Who knows? Maybe we can make up for lost time.” “Here’s hoping,” Wally agreed. “So did you tell him?” Moms played stupid. “Did I tell who what?” “Did you tell Rogan about Tran? About how she tried to cheat you?” Moms wished Wally would grow the hell up and let him hear the annoyance in her voice. “No, Wally, I didn’t, and neither should you. Dan’s no fool. Give him time. He’ll figure it out.”

“You shouldn’t have brought her,” Wally said accusingly. “I could report you for taking a bribe.” Moms examined her cigar, wished she could light it, and knew she couldn’t. Not while the fueling process was under way. “I’ll tell you what, Wally . . . I’ll pretend you never said that. Because if I thought you were serious, a freighter might bump into that tin can you call home.” Wally was indignant. “You wouldn’t dare!” The cyborg was correct, but Moms had an image to maintain. “Oh, yes I would. So shut the hell up and let Dan live his life. Mistakes and all.” Moms heard a click followed by silence. She sighed, rolled the cigar from one side of her mouth to the other, and started through the preflight checklist. At least that made sense. ••• Rogan watched Tran from the corner of his eye and tried to gauge her reaction. Was she happy? Sad? Excited? What? Tran seemed to sense his interest and produced a smile. It was dazzling to behold. Rogan felt warm all over. She gestured to the panorama beyond the bugsmeared windscreen. “It’s beautiful, Dan. And so big. It’s hard to believe that you live all alone.” Rogan grinned. “Not anymore! Besides, there’s Wally, and visitors drop in from time to time.” ••• Tran felt a sudden sense of alarm. Wally? Visitors? Both represented sources of potential danger. She smiled the smile that worked every time. “Wally? What does he do?” “Wally lives in orbit,” Rogan said, jerking a thumb toward the sky. “He’s responsible for the planet’s mechanized systems. I guess I should tell you that he was opposed to the ad. Don’t worry; he’ll adjust. And once he does, he’ll like you as much as I do.” ••• Wally had ordered “Bob” the maintenance bot to hardwire the grav truck’s hand mike into the open position the night before. He heard Rogan’s words as clearly as if he’d been riding in the backseat. The response was for his sensors only. “Not very damned likely, Dan. Not very damned likely.” ••• Tran made a mental note to learn more about the cyborg so she could subvert or neutralize him. She had worn an intentionally short skirt. Skin flashed as she crossed and recrossed her legs. “You mentioned visitors?” Rogan shrugged. “Sure, we get ‘em. But not too often. My sector boss, a jerk named Elvas Werkmor, drops in from time to time, as do health inspectors, sales sentients, and religious fanatics. You’d be surprised how many lunatics are running around the Confederation.” “But what about the police?” Tran asked innocently. “Surely they come by every now and then.” “Not so far,” Rogan answered lightly. “Why? Do you need protection?” Tran batted her eyelashes. “I have no idea. Do I?” Rogan gulped and felt blood rush to his face. “Why, yes, I mean no, of course you don’t.” “Good,” Tran said easily. “I feel better already.” Rogan put the truck into a shallow dive and Tran looked out through the windshield. She saw nothing except endless rows of tall green plants. “Where’s the house? The pool? The robots?”

“Oh, that’s fifty miles to the south,” Rogan replied carelessly. “We’ll go there next. First I want to show you something special—a sight you’ve never seen before.” Could it be superior to a hot bath? After weeks of recycled water? Tran didn’t think so. But she played along. “Wonderful. I can hardly wait.” Thousands, maybe millions of the tall green plants undulated toward the distant horizon, suggesting waves in a green ocean. Rogan brought the grav truck down near a small structure that he referred to as a pump station. The hatch opened and they disembarked. Tran had to make a conscious effort to leave the bag full of money behind. They hadn’t gone more than three yards before Tran felt her high heels sink into the soft dirt. She was in the process of falling backward when Rogan caught her. She thanked him and Rogan continued to babble as they approached the pump station. “ . . .because the climate-control system works only part of the time,” Rogan explained, as he concluded a long diatribe about the weather. “Here, climb the ladder. I’ll follow you up.” A metal ladder had been welded to the side of the pump station, and Tran climbed. As she did so she assumed Rogan was looking up her skirt. It was only when she reached the roof and looked down that she realized that his eyes were averted. Was he gay? No, that didn’t make sense. Why would a gay man share his planet with a woman? A gentleman, then? One of the rare breed she’d heard about but never encountered? Apparently so. Tran cleared her throat. “Come on up.” Rogan turned, smiled, and clamored up the ladder. “Isn’t the view fantastic?” he inquired. “I could look at it all day long.” Tran hoped he wouldn’t. The plants were about fifteen feet tall, and even though she was standing on the pump house roof, the tops of them came up to her knees. They had thick stems and broad green leaves and were thick with cylindrical pods. Insects buzzed around her head and a rich, earthy scent rose to envelop her. Something bothered her nose and she contained a sneeze. “Yes, it’s wonderful,” she lied. “What sort of crop am I looking at anyway?” Rogan glanced over to see if she was joking. Having seen no signs of a smile, he gave a serious response. “Corn. You’re looking at a corn crop. A variant called Calag Gold to be exact . . . although the history of corn is so rich that no single company can properly take credit for it.” “They can’t?” Tran asked innocently. “Why not?” Rogan shrugged. “Scientists think corn evolved from a native grass on Earth. Archaeological digs in what was once called Mexico turned up tiny ears of four-rowed corn.” “Like the little ears that come in fancy salads?” Rogan laughed. “Yes. Although there were fewer kernels of corn on the ancient variety. In any case, Calag Gold traces its ancestry all the way back to the Indians, who selected the strongest kernels of corn each year and planted them. The result was a crop they could depend on. “As scientists learned more and more about genetics, they created a broader, straighter leaf to gather more sunlight, a perennial variety to save the cost of continual replanting, and added a legume gene that reduces the need for fertilizer by returning nitrogen to the soil.” Tran nodded agreeably. “I like corn. But I hate Brussels sprouts.” Rogan laughed and realized how good it felt. Better than a belt of Duncan’s Prime, better than anything he could remember. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll notify the auto-chef.” “So,” Tran said, edging toward the ladder in hope that the visit would come to an end, “corn is an important crop?”

“It sure is,” Rogan answered soberly. “This planet exports eighty-two million tons of corn per year. That’s enough to feed two billion people. Not that humans eat all of it. Corn winds up in processed food, glue, shoe polish, lotions, crayons, ink, aspirin, paint, and cosmetics.” The word “cosmetics” triggered an unconscious reaction and Tran reached for her compact. Rogan noticed and realized his guest might have needs other than a desire to eyeball his corn crop. He smiled. “Enough about corn. Let’s head for the house.” Tran nodded gratefully and moved toward the ladder. Rogan was a geek all right. But a manageable geek. And what more could any woman want?

Chapter Seven Honor precedes money in the affairs of the Shumu, for honor is forever, and money is quickly spent. And so it is that he who guards his honor has wealth eternal, and he who guards his money has nothing. (Excerpted from the Book of Secret Rites, author unknown, no listing available.)

The Planet Crumby II Jones ran like he’d never run before. His once fashionable clothes had been reduced Joman to rags while he climbed over fences and soiled by days spent hiding in alleys. The shoes that had never been intended for anything more strenuous than a stroll through a wellcarpeted hotel lobby were falling apart. They made slapping sounds as they hit the pavement and splashed through puddles of oily black water. It was night and the pools of light cast by the streetlamps were like islands of safety, places where a man could see what was after him. As he passed under a light, Jones looked over his shoulder. The rateye, the underworld’s version of a copeye, was still a hundred feet behind him. Why hang back? Why follow at such a precise interval? Unless . . . The thought was still being born when two men stepped out in front of him. Blue feathers and identical headbands signified their membership in the La Paz branch of the Brotherhood. The man on the left opened a black trench coat to reveal a stainless steel shotgun. It hung barrel down beneath his right armpit. The gesture was more eloquent than any collection of words could have been. Jones slowed and came to a staggering stop. He was bent over, hands on knees, when the blues closed in. They spun the con man around and sent him staggering down the street. The rateye led the way, its sensors alert to the slightest signs of danger. All Jones could do was follow along behind. It was his fault. Mistakes had been made. And now he would have to pay the price. The first mistake had been to partner with Jennifer Tran, the second was to provide her with an opportunity to betray him, and the third was to let her get away with it. But the worst mistake of all was to cross Luis La Paz. As they rounded a corner, a sleek grav car whispered out of the darkness. It rocked gently as it hovered next to the curb, and a door opened to reveal a dimly lit interior. Hands pushed and orders were given. Jones felt his way into a backward-facing seat and turned to assess his chances. Violence was out of the question. But what about words? They were his stock-intrade and had saved him many times before. Jones smiled tentatively as he eyed the blues. They sat across from him with arms folded, their faces devoid of expression. The con man allowed the smile to fade. Why bother? The men weren’t men. They were androids. And you can’t con a machine. As the limo accelerated away from the curb, Jones discovered that his senses had been inexplicably heightened. He could smell the leather upholstery, hear the faint strains of Chu

Chu music that were emanating from the driver’s compartment, and see that a button was missing from an android’s coat. Stupid things. Unremarkable things. Unless you were about to die. Then they were impossibly precious. The ride was short but seemed longer. Each time the vehicle slowed, it raised the possibility that Jones would be killed and his body dumped in the street. Then, as the limo picked up speed, hope was momentarily restored. Where were they going? And what would happen to him once they arrived? Not knowing was torture. After what seemed like hours, the limo slowed and drifted to a stop. The doors swished open and a robot pointed at the opening. It took considerable effort to exit the low-slung vehicle. Jones was planning to run until he came nose-to-barrel with an ugly-looking gun. As Jones looked up, he saw that a pair of coal-black eyes were looking back at him. The woman smiled and motioned him forward. Now Jones knew where he was. The man-made hill towered above the upscale neighborhood that surrounded it. Everyone knew about the businessman who, having cheated La Paz, disappeared, never to be seen again. Shortly thereafter the businessman’s skyscraper was purchased, reduced to rubble, and used to build the small mountain on which the crime boss’s home sat. A perch that allowed La Paz to literally look down onto the city’s wealthiest neighborhood, all of which added to his considerable mystique. “Move.” The way the woman said the word left no room for argument. Jones moved. He could feel the white pea gravel pressing up through the thin-soled shoes, smell the blossoms that lined the path, and taste his own bad breath. The path gave way to stairs that led upward and eventually terminated in front of a large mansion. It was made of stone and looked like it would last for a thousand years. The door was large and heavy and the brass knocker looked like a bird. It had ruby-red eyes and they blinked as the woman palmed the lock. Jones entered as the door swung open. The interior was overly warm and smelled like ammonia. The reason was immediately obvious: bird droppings lay everywhere. They dripped down the walls, covered the furniture, and nearly obscured the hardwood floors. The con man wrinkled his nose and turned to the woman. She gestured toward a hallway. Jones preceded her. Wings whirred as a bird flew past his head. He turned but was too late to see the creature. Doors slid sideways so that Jones could enter what had been an elegant study. The original furniture had been replaced by twenty or thirty birdcages in every size and shape. Some were made of bamboo, some of metal wire, and some were protected by opalescent force fields. None had doors, so they were more like homes than cages. Jones saw that roughly half the available cages were occupied and the variety of birds on display would have done justice to the finest aviary. There was a lot of noise as the birds squawked, screeched, and hooted, but there was no sign of La Paz or anyone else for that matter. Jones was about to comment when the woman backed out of the room and closed the doors. Jones frowned and was about to follow her example when a puff of air touched his cheek. He allowed his eyes to roam among the cages and saw the open window. It was large enough for a man to stand in or jump out of. Heavily stained blue drapes hung to either side of the opening and stirred in response to an evening breeze. The con man moved cautiously. It was hard to believe that such an obvious escape route had been left unguarded. A red bird flapped its wings and tried to land on his shoulder. It squawked as Jones brushed it off. His right foot struck some bones, and they rattled across

the floor. They looked big—too big to belong to a bird. Jones felt a chill run down his spine and wanted to pee. Slowly, cautiously, the con man approached the window. He looked down and instinctively pulled back. What initially seemed like an escape route was a sheer drop onto the rubble far below. Jones was backing away when he heard the flap of heavy wings and saw something large pass through the window. It was a bird—a huge bird—and clearly predatory, judging from its cruelly curved beak and talon-equipped feet. It landed on a low T-shaped roost and examined Jones with piercing yellow eyes. The con man took another step backward and tripped. The bird laughed as he fell—not a bird sound but a real honest-to-goodness belly laugh. Jones was so surprised, so taken aback, that he didn’t notice the slime under his hands. The laughter stopped and the bird cocked its head. The voice was a deep baritone. “There’s no need to sit in the bird shit, son. Stand up.” Jones struggled to his feet, looked at the slime on his hands, and wiped them on his already filthy pants. The bird shifted from side to side. “Where’s my money?” Jones stared in openmouthed amazement. He’d heard of custom-designed biostructures but had never been so close to one. To say that such bodies were rare would be an understatement. Each was unique to the requirements of the customer and was believed to cost fifty million or so. It wasn’t the smartest thing Jones had ever said, but the words popped out nevertheless. “For god’s sake, why?” Luis La Paz ruffled his feathers. If the crime boss was offended, he gave no sign of it. “Because I like birds, because this body can fly, and because I was bored. Satisfied?” Jones nodded mutely. “Good,” La Paz said. “Now answer my question. Where is my money?” A large lump had formed in the back of Jones’s throat, and he struggled to swallow it. Borrowing money from the crime lord’s loan sharks had been a mistake. He knew that now. But what to do? The plan had been to repay the loan with the proceeds from the bank examiner scam. But Tran had stolen the money and kicked him in the balls. They still ached. But the bird man wouldn’t care. Not in the least. Jones licked his lips. “The money was stolen from me.” A thin, almost completely transparent membrane descended over the crime lord’s eyes, then disappeared. “How unfortunate. There’s altogether too much crime these days. Wouldn’t you agree?” Jones felt a globule of sweat trickle down his spine. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He managed a nod. “So,” La Paz asked lazily, “what do you plan to do?” The question assumed some sort of future and Jones felt a sudden rush of hope. His voice cracked. “Find the money and return it to you?” “An excellent idea,” the birdman said agreeably. “Assuming such a thing is possible, and assuming that you understand why I want it.” Jones struggled to understand. What the hell was La Paz talking about? Everyone wanted as much money as they could get their grubby hands on. Nobody needed a reason. Nobody he knew anyway. La Paz shook his head sadly. “You don’t understand, do you, son? Well, listen carefully. It isn’t about money. It’s about honor—something the Shumu Brotherhood considers to be much more important. Honor has to do with honesty, with keeping your word, and with your value as

a person. To borrow my money and fail to return it is a violation of your honor and mine.” Jones had absolutely no idea what La Paz was talking about but nodded anyway. “Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more. I would like nothing better than to restore my honor. Our honor. And I think I can recover the money.” “I’m pleased to hear it,” the crime lord said as he extended his wings and shook them out. “And you will have that chance. After a minor operation.” Jones felt fear stab his belly. His voice shook. “An operation? What sort of operation?” “Experience has taught me that some people find it difficult to concentrate on the importance of personal honor,” La Paz answered. “Left to their own devices, they have a tendency to stray and break even more promises. So to help you remain focused, my surgeons are going to remove your kidneys. A pair of lab-grown substitutes will replace them. They will explode if tampered with—and cease to function after sixty days. But assuming you deliver my money within that time period, I will return your kidneys.” Jones backed away. He hit a cage. It fell, birds took to the air, and wings batted his head. “No! There’s no damned way that I’ll agree to—” The woman and two blues had entered the room behind him. The sound of their footsteps had been deadened by an area rug. A stun gun touched his head and darkness fell. ••• La Paz shook his head sadly. There was little if any chance that Jones would understand the importance of personal honor. That had been clear from the moment he had decided to run rather than face the music. Ah well, he thought, many are called but few are chosen. The con man was still being dragged from the room, his heels leaving furrows in the fecescovered floor, when the crime boss flapped his wings and came to rest on the windowsill. From there it was a simple matter to lean forward and fall into a long, shallow dive. The glorious wind rushed under the immense spread of his mighty wings and lifted him up. His heart filled with joy. Somewhere in the labyrinth below he would find an overfed house cat and lift it yowling into the air. His stomach growled in anticipation.

Chapter Eight Fear should be central to every manager’s approach—and can be stimulated through a variety of means. (Excerpt from the Calag Planetary Manager’s Handbook, 3rd edition, chapter 2, page 22, paragraph 3.)

In orbit around Calag Planet 4782/X Director Elvas Werkmor awoke to a soft buzzing sound, checked the screen next to Sector his bunk, and saw that the ship had dropped into orbit around Calag Planet 4782/X. Who was the PM anyway? Riss? Walsh? Davison? He issued a voice command and watched Rogan’s name pop up along with a list of missed quotas and sixteen exception reports. Werkmor groaned, levered himself out of bed, and headed for the shower. The water was hot and pummeled his skin. What with her built-in argrav generators and generous living quarters, the Spirit of Calag was a fine little ship—just one of the perks that went with Werkmor’s rank. There had been a time when the ship boasted a one-person crew, a cute little redhead named Jane. But she had fallen victim to the latest round of downsizing. Rumor had it that she was piloting an ore barge out on the rim. Yes, Werkmor decided as he stepped out of the shower, the life of a sector director was a hard one. Of course, the life of a PM was even worse. The thought brought a smile to his lips. •••

On the surface of Calag Planet 4782/X The processing plant was supposed to be a noisy place full of whirring conveyor belts and clanking hoists as a river of beans entered the machines where they would be rinsed and irradiated prior to being poured into a parade of cargo modules. Except that the normally noisy operation had shut itself down, a situation Rogan was there to correct. He entered the prefab building, spotted the control panel, and ignored the red status lights. He would look at them if forced to do so but preferred to get the “feel” of the situation first. He knew his behavior wouldn’t make sense to someone who hadn’t dealt with machinery for as long as he had, but for the most part, idiot lights were intended for idiots. He knew the line wasn’t moving. The question was why, and the problem was likely to be serious, since a Class II repair droid had been unable to correct it. A persistent squeaking noise interrupted the near perfect silence. Rogan followed it back into a labyrinth of equipment. It was his experience that machines don’t squeak if they are in proper working order. So if he could locate the source of the sound, the chances were pretty good that he would find the problem. Skeletal machines loomed to the left and right as Rogan moved deeper into the building.

Skeletal machines loomed to the left and right as Rogan moved deeper into the building. The lighting was dim because the robots that serviced the machines had little need for illumination. Rogan could see their amber standby lights glowing here and there as they stared at him from various nooks and crannies. The squeaking sound was noticeably louder by then, and Rogan knew that the source of the breakdown was directly in front of him. He removed a flashlight from his utility belt and switched it on. The beam splashed on a motionless conveyor belt and came to rest on a pair of shiny legs. They were protruding from the maw of a large machine and jerked spastically as Rogan approached. It appeared that the android had located the cause of the stoppage and, rather than shut the plant down long enough to repair it, had attempted to intervene while the machinery was running. A roller continued to turn under the robot’s chest and squeaked as it went around. Rogan opened the com link. “Wally? I located the problem.” The reply was intentionally bored. “So? What’s up?” “It looks like a Class II identified a problem, tried to fix it on the fly, and took a header into the main intake port.” “Yeah? Well, drag its ass outta there and hit the restart button. We’ve got quotas to make.” “We certainly do,” Rogan said patiently, “and we won’t be able to make them if you take stupid shortcuts.” Righteous indignation seemed like a good strategy, so Wally ran with it. “ Short cuts? What the hell are you talking about?” Rogan climbed up onto the conveyor belt support frame, took hold of the robot’s ankles, and pulled. “A Class II doesn’t have enough operational latitude to take this sort of independent action. Not without instructions from you.” Wally was defensive. “Instructions from me? Why is everything my fault? What is this? Blame Wally week?” The android popped free and waved its arms as Rogan pulled it out onto the conveyor belt. The machine was apologetic. “Hello, sir . . . Sorry, sir . . . It won’t happen again, sir.” Rogan released the machine’s ankles and watched it roll over and sit up. “So why did you do it?” The robot leaned forward as if to answer, but Wally cut the machine off. “Sorry to interrupt this charming tête-à-tête, but our boss is here and wants a word with you.” There were a number of things Rogan wanted to say, including, “Why the hell didn’t you warn me?” but there wasn’t enough time. Not if Werkmor was on the ground. The plant was coming back to life as Rogan emerged into the sunlight. The grav truck was waiting. As Rogan entered the cockpit, he saw the blinking com light. Werkmor loved to make surprise inspections and fed off the fear they generated. So the trick was to look serene, even if his emotions were anything but. Rogan forced a smile and touched a button. Video blossomed and Werkmor appeared. He had a pasty-white complexion, close-set eyes, and a weak chin. Thin lips turned up into the semblance of a smile. “Riss, how nice to see you . . . I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.” Rogan hoped the mistake was a joke but feared that it wasn’t. “I’m glad you did,” he lied. “Where can we meet?” Werkmor looked off-screen and back again. “The house will be fine . . . I plan to stay the night if that’s okay with you.” Rogan remembered Tran and searched for the right words. “Sure. I’ll call Jennifer and let her know that you’re coming.”

Werkmor raised an eyebrow. “Jennifer? I don’t remember a Jennifer. Your sister perhaps?” Rogan sought to make the reply sound casual. “No, a friend; that’s all.” The sector manager winked knowingly. “Good for you, Riss. I didn’t know you had it in you.” Rogan sighed. “The name’s Rogan . . . And I’ll see you at the house.” ••• Werkmor blinked as the screen snapped to black. Riss . . . Rogan . . . What difference did it make? A team player doesn’t worry about names. Whoa! That had a ring to it. “A team player doesn’t worry about names.” It was the kind of phrase the chairman loved. He made a note to plant the phrase in his next memo. ••• Jennifer Tran scanned the control board, found the key she was looking for, and speared it with a long, carefully manicured finger. “Hey, you . . . Wally . . . Can you hear me?” Wally was busy dealing with a crisis in the southern hemisphere, so the transmission caught him by surprise. “Yes? Who’s this?” “Who the hell do you think it is?” Tran demanded aggressively. “I’m the only woman on this godforsaken planet.” “A fact for which I am eternally thankful,” Wally replied. “What can I do for you? Ship your butt off-planet?” “Don’t you wish,” Tran replied. “No, this is about something else. A truce of sorts.” “A truce?” Wally asked doubtfully. “I don’t understand.” “Oh, but I think you do,” Tran said as she settled into a chair. “You control the droids, and I control Rogan. Or I will when I give him what he wants. Now, we can waste a lot of time and energy trying to one-up each other, or we can enter into a mutually advantageous agreement. Which will it be?” Wally had enjoyed overcooking her oatmeal, forcing her to take cold showers, and generally harassing her over the last few days. The possibility of a truce hadn’t occurred to him. It seemed repugnant on the one hand yet attractive on the other. Dan was a friend after all—the only friend he had. That made the issue of control vitally important, and the minute Tran went to bed with Rogan, she would have the upper hand. So a treaty might be wise—if he could trust her. “How do I know that you’ll keep your side of the bargain?” Tran lit a stim stick, took a drag, and blew a long, thin stream of smoke toward the screens in front of her. They showed Wally’s position relative to the network of minisats that made up his world-spanning control system—a system far too complicated for her to subvert. “Because you control nearly every machine on the planet, and accidents can happen.” Wally was genuinely shocked. Though he was possessive, and more than a little manipulative, the possibility of murder had never occurred to him. But the card was on the table and the cyborg had every reason to play it. “Yes, well, there is that, isn’t there? Still, your idea has merit. Assuming you have something specific in mind.” “I do,” Tran responded cheerfully. “See what you think of this . . . You back off, and I promise to leave.” “How soon?” Wally asked suspiciously. “Within twelve local months,” Tran answered easily. “Satisfied?” Wally wanted the woman to leave sooner than that—but his thoughts were interrupted by an alert from the air traffic control computer. Elvas Werkmor was about to touch down and Rogan was on the way. An idea occurred to the cyborg, and he wanted to smile. “Okay, it’s a

deal. And I need some help.” ••• Tran sighed. It seemed that men, even disembodied men, always wanted more. “Yes? What is it?” Wally told her. ••• Rogan rarely used his office, so it looked clean, tidy, and very impersonal. But like most executives, Werkmor loved offices and was quick to settle in. He made a steeple with his fingers and eyed Rogan across an acre of empty desk. All Rogan could do was sit there and wait for the verbal beating. It was quick to come. “So, let’s see if I understand the situation,” Werkmor said judiciously. “You’re roughly two million tons of wheat in the hole, not to mention the fact that you should’ve shipped a lot more animal protein than you have. Does that sum it up?” The truth was that Rogan could think of at least three or four other crops that had come in below quota, but he saw no reason to bring them up. “Yes, sir. Remembering that management upped my targets and an unexpected storm caused a lot of crop damage.” All of the PMs liked to whine about their quotas, and Werkmor was about to serve up one of his stock replies when a knock came at the door. “Excuse me, gentlemen . . . I thought you might enjoy a snack.” Rogan turned as Jennifer entered the office carrying a plate of freshly baked brownies. Thus far she had never lifted a hand to so much as get him a cup of coffee. Yet here she was bringing treats, and at the perfect moment too. It was a miracle. Werkmor turned, ready to dismiss the woman with a businesslike frown, but was dazzled by her smile—not to mention the perfectly applied makeup and the short skirt she wore. He smiled and got to his feet. “Brownies . . . How thoughtful. Don’t mind if I do.” Rogan accepted a brownie, followed by a cup of coffee, and marveled at Tran’s transformation. The way she played to Werkmor’s ego and led him away from the subject of quotas was a wonder to behold. Of equal interest was the fact that she’d never used the same wiles on him. Or had she and he just didn’t know about it? Rogan sat back, watched Tran continue to work her magic, and concluded that life could be good.

Chapter Nine Sym-bi-o-sis/n, pl -bi-oses/ 1: two [or more] dissimilar organisms living together in close association 2: the association or close union of two [or more] dissimilar organisms in a mutually beneficial relationship. (Excerpted from Webster’s Interspecies Guide to Common Concepts, 4th edition, Multimedia Matrix 10.3, Reference Code NFX 0259.786.)

With the Hudu Fleet was in a foul mood as usual. Phosphorescence exploded all around the Hudu as he L eo passed between two treelike support columns. Meyers hurried to follow. She was determined to keep up and capture his high-pitched rantings for anthropological posterity. “Why me?” Leo exclaimed pitifully. “Why should (unpronounceable) be the one who has to lead the Meyers female all over the (universe) ship? Surely there are other less important members (traders) of the family available for such onerous tasks.” “Perhaps,” Meyers responded playfully. “Or maybe this is their way of getting rid of you for a while.” Leo paused. A look of what she knew to be concern appeared on his big-eyed face. “Really? Do you think so?” Meyers smiled and the Hudu knew he’d been had. He scowled but was secretly pleased. Though generally annoying, the human came up with an amusing remark every once in a while. Leo set off again and Meyers hurried to catch up. The expedition down into the bowels of the ship was part of her effort to learn more about the Hudu and their culture. Since the Hudu lived their entire lives aboard a fleet of mysterious spaceships, it was important to understand the linkage between the two. And who would be more knowledgeable about that relationship than the individual or individuals responsible for piloting the ship? All of which was fine except for the fact that Leo swore that no one ran the ship, not in the human sense anyway. It seemed the closest thing that the Hudu had to crew were what they called “coordinators,” and at least one coordinator was on duty at all times. That was why they were headed deep into the ship’s labyrinthine interior. Leo brushed a vine-like cable out of the way and it fell back to slap Meyers across the face. She was pretty sure that the Hudu had allowed the cable to hit her on purpose as a way to express his displeasure. The passageway sloped down and turned to the left. Meyers tripped over a rootlike growth and noticed that the overall level of phosphorescence had increased. What had previously been little more than sprinkles of colored light were more concentrated now. Not only that, but what began as little more than a vibration under her feet had morphed into a monotonous thumping sound. Were the coordinators beating on drums? If so, it was the first time Meyers had come across anything resembling music during her travels with the Hudu. Given the ship’s mysterious origins, perhaps some sort of ritual had grown up around the

process of navigating through space. And like most anthropologists, Meyers was a sucker for a good ritual. Meyers saw Leo duck under an overhang and disappear round a corner. She was forced to get down on hands and knees to scurry after him. The thumping sound had grown even louder by then and seemed to reverberate all around. The air was warm, too warm, and sweat poured off her body. The passageway was narrow but mercifully short and emptied into a circular chamber. Meyers stood. A group of Hudu were seated in a circle around something that resembled a toadstool. They were holding hands while staring at a hologram, a ritual if she’d ever seen one. Light rippled across the walls and blipped over the domed ceiling. The floor gave slightly under her boots and Meyers found that she could look down through the nearly transparent shipflesh to a shadowy object below. It moved in time with the thumping sound. A heart! Or something similar. If it was, the discovery could help prove her hypothesis regarding the ship’s origins. What if she was correct? What if it was alive? It took a major exercise of will to repress her desire to bring meaning to what she saw and remain in the neutral observer mode. Leo had approached the coordinators and was in the process of twittering at them. “This is the Meyers female (of no familial status). The elders request that you answer her (often trivial) questions so that she can explain our nearly perfect lifestyle to other (less enlightened) species. By doing so we hope to build trust and open new markets. Please provide her with knowledge regarding the ship’s operation.” With that as an introduction, Meyers was free to interview the coordinators. She had met two of them before. One was a middle-aged male she called Tom, and the other was a youngish female she thought of as Nancy. The others were adolescent males. Though no longer holding hands, the Hudu had remained in their seats during Leo’s introduction. So Meyers stepped into the gap between Tom and Nancy and lowered herself into a cross-legged position on the floor. Below her the huge heart-like organ continued its massive contractions. The booming sound was loud but well short of deafening and the phosphorescence associated with her arrival was starting to fade. Meyers looked around to see if her actions had provoked any negative reactions from the coordinators and didn’t see any, so she turned her attention to the mushroom-like structure at the center of the circle. It shimmered with phosphorescent activity. “Greetings, Nancy . . .Tom . . . Does the structure in front of us have a particular purpose? And if so, what is it?” Nancy responded. “Yes, the structure has a purpose. We call it the (unpronounceable), or ‘happy tooth,’ since it’s shaped like a molar. By touching the tooth and visualizing our destination, we tell the ship(s) where to go.” Questions jostled for position in Meyers’s mind, and her pulse started to race. What Nancy described sounded like telepathy. But that was impossible. The anthropologist struggled to understand. “You visualize where you want to go? As what? Words? A set of coordinates?” “No,” Tom replied. “We project a mental picture of the star system we want to visit followed by an image of the planet we wish to orbit.” Meyers wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of a forearm. “And the ship receives that? And responds accordingly?” Nancy signaled agreement. “That’s how it has been for the last thousand years.” Meyers frowned. “But how? What if you’ve never seen the planet before? What then?”

“Then we’re hosed,” Tom responded. “Unless we can obtain a map of the system along with a high-resolution photograph taken from space.” Meyers looked at the slowly rotating planet at the center of the hologram. “Like that one.” “Exactly,” Tom agreed. The whole thing was fantastic. Visions of academic glory danced in Meyers’s head. She pushed them away. “So the ship reads your minds? And acts on your wishes?” “Not exactly,” Nancy replied. “Or we don’t think so anyway. Although the ship (ships) has the ability to receive and interpret the pictures we send, it (they) isn’t sentient. Our scientists (product development personnel) believe the ship (ships) compares the images we provide with those already stored in their memories. Then they take us there.” “So the original owners had been to every place you want to go?” “That’s the theory,” Tom said dryly, “but you know how loopy product development people are.” “But why?” Meyers asked. “Why would the ships be willing to do your bidding?” “Because it makes them feel good,” one of the younger males twittered. Meyers turned her attention in his direction and saw big brown eyes, a moist black nose, and close fitting skin. She checked to make sure her corders were running. “Going there makes them feel good?” “No, Meyers female (of no familial status),” the younger Hudu answered matter-of-factly. “Stroking the happy tooth makes them feel good.” Meyers nodded, then remembered that the nonverbal didn’t mean anything to the Hudu. “So you think of where you want to go, stroke the happy tooth, and that’s it?” “Pretty much,” Nancy agreed, “except that the ship (ships) has short memories—so we have to send it a picture of the destination on a frequent basis. That’s how we ‘coordinate’ the ship’s movements with our own.” The anthropologist thought about that for a moment. “Which do you think it is? That the ships have short memories or that they like the attention you give them?” “You are exceptionally perceptive for a publicist (paid liar),” Tom replied. “There’s a strong possibility that your second hypothesis is correct.” “So,” Meyers said, surveying the faces around her, “may I see a demonstration of what you do?” “Certainly,” Nancy answered, “unless you’d like to take part.” “I’d love to take part,” Meyers said honestly. “What should I do?” “Stand up,” Tom said, “and step forward.” All of the coordinators rose at that point and closed in around the happy tooth. “Good,” Tom said. “Do as we do.” Meyers looked on as the Hudu placed their paws on top of the tooth. Because she was so much taller, Meyers had to kneel in order to place her hands on the structure. It felt warm and was soft like velvet. The anthropologist checked her senses, waiting for some sign of contact with the ship, but nothing came. It wasn’t long before scientific cynicism seeped in to replace the open-minded optimism she’d felt moments earlier. Meyers glanced left and right. The coordinators had begun to rub the top of the tooth, so she did likewise. Five minutes passed. Meyers had given up hope of any sort of response and was wishing that the session would come to an end, when the ship made its presence known. The contact began as a tickle. Then the sensation grew stronger and turned into a prying sensation, as if a thief was trying to open her mind and peer inside.

Meyers felt her heart start to pound. She feared that the strength of her reaction might sever the fragile contact and chase the visitor away. It quickly became clear that her concern was groundless. Meyers felt the ship’s strength, its unity with other ships located light-years away, and something more: a desperate craving for affection and love. The scientist thought about the ship, about the way it carried them through space, and about how thankful she was. No sooner had the thoughts been processed than there was an explosion of color around her as the phosphorescence went wild. Now she understood the colors and the fact that they were as natural to the ship as a purr is to a cat. The ship’s creators had fashioned emotional rather than electronic controls for their ships. Or were they more than that? Gently, delicately, Meyers probed the presence in her mind. The thoughts were whole and carefully framed. Who or what brought you into existence? How long have you been alive? Why are you willing to serve? But the inquiries elicited little more than emotional reverberations, like echoes in an empty cave, and the questions were left unanswered. And, like a child who has what it wants, the ship withdrew. The departure came with such suddenness that Meyers felt resentful. But that emotion was soon subsumed under a sense of wonder and an overwhelming need to talk about what she had experienced. She turned to Nancy. “That was fantastic! Thanks for allowing me to be part of it. You do this all the time. How were you selected for the job?” Tom uttered the chittering sound Meyers knew to be the Hudu equivalent of laughter. “She got the job the same way all coordinators do . . . She screwed up (made a trading error).” The anthropologist looked from one Hudu to the other. “Screwed up? What do you mean?” “She traded twenty-five hundred read-only memory bubbles to the Hognah Prelate on Onar III in return for rights to the sect’s next virtual reality adventure game, knowing the last one had been a runaway hit and figuring this one would be too.” “And it wasn’t?” Meyers inquired. “We don’t know,” Tom chortled, “and won’t until the Hognah come out of hibernation ten standards years from now!” Nancy scowled, an expression not all that different from the human version, and addressed her tormentor. “Oh yeah, (male of questionable lineage)? What about the deal you cut on IW457? The one where the family paid hard currency for salvage rights to a xeno-drifter? A drifter packed bow to stern with crushed rock?” “The ship was sealed,” Tom replied defensively. “Everyone who submitted a bid took their chances. How was I to know? It could have been loaded with new technology, gold, or other items of value.” The squabble continued as Meyers forced herself to reevaluate some of the rather ethnocentric assumptions she’d made. Given the fact that pilots were respected, if underutilized members of human society, she had assumed that the coordinators were of similar status. The fact that all four of them were undergoing a form of punishment took some getting used to. She frowned. “But why?” she said. “Why is this considered a punishment? The process seems pleasant enough.” The answer came from an unexpected direction as the ship jabbed at her mind. “LOVE! WANT! NOW!” The Hudu interpreted the human’s expression correctly and smiled knowingly. “The ship (ships) serves us well,” Nancy observed. “But it is also a pain in the ass.”

Chapter T en Subject: Spotted Knapweed Spotted Knapweed is an aggressive species of weed that invades pasture and rangeland, frequently resulting in a serious reduction of forage and crop production. Seeds are brown in color, less than a quarter inch long, and have a short tuft of bristles at the tip. They are frequently transported planet to planet on, or in poorly sterilized cargo modules previously used for agricultural purposes. Each plant can produce up to one thousand seeds. If you identify the presence of Spotted Knapweed on your land, it is your responsibility to notify the Department of Agriculture within thirty standard days. Failure to do so could result in civil and criminal penalties per Conagreg 7.230.248.B Department of Agriculture Bulletin, 8974-6896-78B.9

Aboard the Avian off Calag Planet 4782/X Jones was seated next to the pilot as the ship dropped into orbit. He would never Joman have been able to find Jennifer Tran by himself, but with help from Luis La Paz and the considerable resources of the Shumu Brotherhood, it had been possible to identify the hotel she was staying in. She had checked out by then, but after paying some hefty bribes, Jones gained access to the e-mails Tran sent and received during her stay, the most significant of which was the message sent to a sucker named Dan Rogan. Part of it read, “I’d like to meet you and get acquainted.” What a load of crap. “I’d like to hide out on your nowhere planet,” was more like it. Unfortunately the process of gathering information, securing support from La Paz, and traveling to Calag 4782/X had consumed a great deal of time—time he couldn’t afford to lose. Not with ticking time bombs where his kidneys used to be. Three days. That’s how much time he had left in which to recover the money and begin the two-week journey back to Crumby II. Could he do it? Hell, he had to do it. Nothing would be allowed to stand in his way. Jones’s thoughts were interrupted by the pilot. “I thought you said there were two people on this planet,” she said. “I’m taking shit from a cyborg named Wally, a tug captain who calls herself Moms, and a traffic control computer. They’re uptight because your farmer friend is firing cargo containers into space and we might get in the way.” “You know what to tell ‘em,” Jones said. “We’re from the Department of Agriculture. We’re here to check for an invasive species called Spotted Knapweed 3.4 as mandated by Conagreg 7.230.248B.” Like any good con man, Jones had done his homework and knew that representatives from the Department of Agriculture were due in a week or so—and that regulation 7.230.248B actually existed—although he wasn’t sure that inspectors were traveling from planet to planet searching for Spotted Knapweed. “Roger that,” the pilot replied. “I’ll tell them.” Her name was Silk, and she was the one La Paz had dispatched to find Jones back on Crumby II. T he Avian shook violently as the pilot took the ship down through a thick layer of white

cumulonimbus. The clouds disappeared at twenty thousand feet, giving Jones a sweeping view of the well-maintained fields that stretched from horizon to horizon. But the con man was barely conscious of the scenery. He was looking for money—a bag filled with the stuff. And a lying, cheating bitch named Jennifer Tran. ••• Rogan was standing on an observation platform next to the rail gun, and even though there was no way he could see Wally, he looked up at the sky anyway. “If that’s supposed to be a joke, you’re one sick son of a bitch.” “It’s no joke,” the cyborg replied. “A ship full of Ag heads is in atmosphere and headed for your house.” “Shit, shit, shit.” “My words exactly.” “I don’t have time for this,” Rogan said. “Wait a minute . . . Here’s an idea! I’ll ask Werkmor to schmooze the Ag heads.” “Sorry,” Wally replied. “Werkmor and Tran took truck two out for a spin. They’re in the southern hemisphere headed for Fantasy Island.” Fantasy Island was the name Rogan had given to a tropical isle located thousands of miles to the south. It fell into the six percent of the planet’s surface that didn’t have a specific purpose. What it did offer, however, was a warm, sunny place that Rogan went to on those rare occasions when he could take a few days off. Tran hadn’t mentioned the trip, but Rogan was proud of her. “That’s great! You gotta give Jennifer credit. She’s keeping Werkmor out of my hair.” ••• And having sex with him, Wally thought. But he couldn’t say that—and knew Rogan wouldn’t believe it if he did. “Yeah, she’s something else all right,” the cyborg said. “Good luck with the Ag heads.” ••• The Avian had already touched down by the time Rogan arrived home. The vaguely birdlike ship looked huge compared to Werkmor’s speedster and took up so much of the pad that Rogan had to land his truck on the lawn. Bob wouldn’t like that, but it couldn’t be helped. Rogan ran through the truck’s shutdown sequence, ordered the side hatch to open, and jumped to the ground. T he Avian was equipped with extendable wings for use in planetary atmospheres. Servos whined as they folded themselves into tidy triangles that disappeared into the ship’s hull. It was very fancy and a far cry from the navy surplus shuttle that the last group of Ag heads had arrived in. As Rogan approached, he saw that there were six inspectors rather than the two-person team the government usually sent: a man, a woman, and four androids. All wore identical blue jumpsuits. A Department of Agriculture logo was visible over each breast pocket, with the organization’s motto stitched in gold letters below: “Per ordinationes, vincemus.” (Through regulations we will prevail.) The male member of the team came forward to crush Rogan’s hand. He was tall, blond, and good-looking. “Hi there! My name is Sven. Sven Olafson. Are you Dan Rogan?” “One and the same,” Rogan replied. “You guys are a week early.”

“That’s true,” Olafson replied. “But that’s how we roll. The sooner we find the Spotted Knapweed and kill it, the better. The stuff spreads like a weed.” “It is a weed,” Rogan said mildly. “Yes,” Olafson said brightly. “Of course it is. That’s why we’re here.” Rogan nodded. “If you’re tired of living on your ship, you can stay in the house. There are six bedrooms, three of which are available at the moment. I assume the androids won’t require accommodations.” “No, they won’t,” Olafson agreed. “It sounds like you have other guests as well.” “My boss is here,” Rogan replied. “And a friend. They’re on a trip at the moment. Make yourselves to home. Normally I would help you settle in, but the Calag fleet is here, and we’re in the middle of loading.” “No problem,” Olafson replied. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll unpack our stuff and go to work first thing tomorrow.” Having welcomed the Ag heads, Rogan returned to work. The sun was an orange smear in the western sky by then. It would be dark soon, but that made no difference where the loading operation was concerned; it ran around the clock. And so did the problems associated with it. Rogan entered the truck, ran the preflight checklist, and took off. The call came in five minutes later. The computer had a flat, inflection-free voice. “Sensors report a level-three electrical fire at Guideway Station 23.” A level-three fire was quite serious, especially in a guideway station. They were located at half-mile intervals and used to power the huge conveyer belt that led to the rail gun. If one of them were to burn down and sever the belt, the entire operation would grind to a halt and remain offline for weeks, if not months, while repairs were being made. Rogan felt a sudden queasiness at the pit of his stomach. “Give me the details.” “Sensors report a level-three electrical fire at Guideway Station 23,” the computer said unemotionally. Those were the same words it had used before and bereft of all details. Rogan touched the link. “Wally . . . are you on this? There’s a fire in GS23.” “Yeah,” came the reply. “The suppression system failed to fire. I tried to trigger it from here, but nothing happened.” “Can you cut power to it?” “Just a sec . . . No. The breaker isn’t responding. “ “Send the nearest CO2 bots. All of them.” “They’re on the way.” “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Maybe I can cut the power manually.” “Be careful, Dan . . . I’d hate to lose a PM as gullible as you are.” “Thanks, Wally . . . It’s nice to know you care.” Every minute seemed like an eternity as Rogan pulled both throttles back against their stops and the truck sped through the night. After turning the autopilot on, Rogan fired up his perscomp, called for the GS23 wiring diagram, and took the opportunity to study it. If he could cut the main power supply without frying himself, he could take the station offline. At that point the conveyer belt would continue to move, albeit at a slower pace. Werkmor would be pissed, but even he would agree that a slower load out was a hell of a lot better than leaving half the harvest on Calag 4782/X. Rogan put the computer aside and took control. The truck was only a hundred feet off the ground by then and he could see the reddish glow up ahead. Lights were stationed at regular intervals along the twisting, turning conveyer belt, so GS23 looked like a ruby on a string of

pearls. It was impossible to land on the station, so he put the truck down next to it. Putting water on an electrical fire was dangerous, so a small army of CO2 robots had converged on the scene and were rushing into the building, where they could spray carbon dioxide on the flames. And that explained why the elevated conveyer belt remained untouched up to that point. Rogan paused to open a side compartment and grab a selection of tools before exiting the truck and jumping to the ground. From there it was a short sprint to the cable vault at the side of the building. The incessant screeching of the fire alarm made it hard to focus. Rather than take the time necessary to remove the eight screws that held the front access panel in place, Rogan used a plasma torch to cut a hole in it. He was wearing a headlamp, and the light washed across some large cables. They looked like black snakes—each as thick as his arm. Having escaped the confines of an underground conduit, they seemed to slither into the building. Rogan pulled on a pair of insulated gloves before taking hold of the cable cutters. Then it was time to check the placement of his body. If he was grounded or standing in a puddle of water, Werkmor would need a new PM. He opened the tool as far as it would go and prepared to cut the center cable. That was the one, right? Rogan tried to visualize the schematic he’d seen, but nothing appeared. Wally’s voice sounded in his head. “Quit screwing around down there . . . The CO2 bots weren’t able to put the fire out. Cut the power, damn it.” Rogan closed his eyes, made the cut, and waited to die. The fire alarm stopped. “Nice going!” Wally said. “The power’s off and the belt is still operational. I’ll send more droids. They can fight the fire with water now.” Rogan felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief as he stumbled away. It felt good to be alive. Lights came on as he entered the truck. Suddenly he was tired—very tired—and wanted nothing so much as a nap. So he put the tools away and went back to collapse on a bunk. Sleep carried him away. ••• The fire was out—and so was Rogan. That left Wally with some free time. And because the cyborg could monitor what took place inside Rogan’s house, he could watch what guests did as well. That included the Ag heads—not because he was suspicious of them but because spying on people was fun. However, what started out as a bit of idle entertainment soon turned into something else as Olafson posted a sentry on the porch and ordered the rest of them to search the house. It soon became apparent that he had a particular interest in Jennifer Tran’s room. Olafson looked in her closet, in her dresser, and under the bed, all without finding what he was looking for. So it didn’t take a genius to realize that the Ag heads weren’t Ag heads. There was no way to know what they were after, but given Wally’s estimation of Tran’s character, he figured it was money or something worth money. So, Wally thought. What should I do? Tell Dan? If I do, he’ll realize the full extent of my surveillance capabilities, and that could place an unnecessary strain on our relationship. Or should I tell Tran? Maybe she’ll leave sooner than planned. And that would be good. Wally was about to contact Tran when all hell broke loose. ••• “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Rogan thought the voice was part of a dream, so he rolled over. But the voice wouldn’t go away. “Dan . . . Seriously. Wake up. We have a problem. A big problem.” Rogan opened his eyes and found himself looking at the bunk above him. The fire! Maybe it wasn’t out after all. His boots hit the deck. “What happened?” “One hundred and fifty-six ships just dropped into orbit.” “Okay, that’s it. I’m going to go up there and kick your ass.” “This is no joke,” Wally insisted earnestly. “I’m serious. More than a hundred and fifty Hudu ships have arrived, and according to an anthropologist named Dr. Matti Meyers, three hundred and sixty more are on the way. Moms is furious.” Rogan could imagine the problems that Moms and her crew faced. As the rail gun fired containers up into orbit, the crew had to make sure they got aboard the right freighters. The sudden arrival of so many ships would make the task more difficult and increase the chance of a collision. “Why?” he demanded. “What are the Hudu doing here?” “Apparently, according to Dr. Meyers, this is where they come to die. It all dates back to the days before the planet was terraformed.” Rogan was aghast. “How many?” “As I understand it, about fifteen thousand Hudu plan to die. And the rest will want to attend the ceremonies.” Rogan’s mind was reeling. “And how many is that?” “A million and a half Hudu, give or take. They should start to arrive shortly.” “We’re screwed.” “Yup, that’s about the size of it.” There was nothing left to say.

Chapter Eleven The Hudu are a little-known race said to number fewer than two million individuals. They live aboard huge spaceships and travel from planet to planet, cutting business deals as they go. Some people claim the Hudu are unscrupulous, but it’s possible that their detractors are individuals who, having been bested in a business deal, qualify as what the Hudu refer to as “sorry-assed losers.” (Excerpted from the Business Section of the Crumby Times, Multimedia Matrix 187.6.)

Calag Planet 4782/X of his vociferous objections, Leo had been chosen to coordinate the dying. So he and I ntwospiteassistants (gofers) were give the task of landing on what was currently designated as Calag Planet 4782/X. The purpose of the mission was to make contact with the resident corpies and take care of whatever arrangements (bribes) might be required. Meyers had requested permission to go along. She wanted to document every aspect of the Hudu death rites and thought it would be nice to breathe some fresh air as well. Leo had responded to the request with the lack of graciousness typical of his kind. “Although taking the Meyers female (of no familial status) along will constitute a heavy burden, I will allow it in order to enhance production of the historical record (marketing materials) that she has responsibility for.” So Meyers was allowed to follow as the Hudu led her through a labyrinth of passageways and out into an area that Leo identified with a series of high-pitched squeaks and the translator referred to as “the pod deck.” The name made sense, since hundreds of egg-shaped pods could be seen between the tree trunk–like structures that connected floor to ceiling. The pods were green and covered with what looked like scales but were actually overlapping heat-resistant tiles, each of which could withstand temperatures up to three thousand degrees Fahrenheit. As Leo approached a pod, it produced an explosion of phosphorescence. That was when Meyers realized that the egg-shaped space shuttles were similar to the ship itself in that they had emotions. Or were they mere expressions of the larger vessel? Still another mystery to solve. As Leo touched the pod, a slit opened to provide an oval shaped opening. The Hudu entered and Meyers followed. Once inside, she saw that a so-called happy tooth occupied the center of the space, with 330-degree seating against the curved sidewalls. Meyers took her place between Leo and a female she called Nomi. All of them strapped in. “Okay,” Leo said as he placed a small holo deck on top of the “tooth.” “Focus on the image you’re looking at and a desire to go there.” “How will you launch the pod?” Meyers inquired. “The ship will push it out through its skin (hull) and eject it into space,” Nomi answered. “So it has a propulsion system?” “No, Meyers female,” Leo responded. “It shares a propulsion system with the ship.” Meyers

wanted to ask a follow-up question, but there wasn’t enough time. She felt a lurch, followed by a moment of vertigo and a touch of nausea. No one had to tell her. She knew the pod had been ejected into space. Three-dimensional images appeared in the air above the “tooth” and began to rotate so all the passengers could see them. Photos of a pristine ice world gave way to pictures in which monstrous gas-spewing terraforming machines inched their way across the planet’s surface and the weather began to change. Then via a series of time-lapse photos Meyers saw a preindustrial Earth-normal planet appear, complete with vast fields of wheat, sparkling rivers, and grazing aniforms. Finally there were shots of large mounds surrounded by rich grassland. It was a beautiful spot and she wanted to go there. The feeling was rewarded with a display of phosphorescence on the curved walls. The Hudu placed their hands on the “tooth,” and Meyers did likewise. The pod began to purr. ••• Elvas Werkmor was snoring. So, confident that it was safe to do so, Tran slipped out of her sleeping bag. Moving cautiously to avoid waking Werkmor, she gathered her belongings and crawled out of the self-inflating tent. She was naked and the night air felt cool on her skin. Her clothes, like his, were on the truck. The original plan was simple. Form a relationship with the executive and hitch a ride on his speedster. Then came the call from Wally. A bunch of agricultural inspectors who weren’t agricultural inspectors had arrived, and the leader was blond. Somehow, someway, Joman Jones had been able to follow her to Calag 4782/X and was searching Rogan’s home. Fortunately the bag full of money wasn’t in the house. It was nearby, however, and Jones might find it. That’s why she had to go back and retrieve the loot. Then, having alienated Werkmor, Tran would contact Moms and buy her way off Calag 4782/X. That was the plan. Servos whined as the hatch opened, and Tran felt a sudden stab of fear. What if Werkmor woke up? She could lie, of course, but it would be impossible to steal the truck if he was up and around. “Autopilot on. Prep for takeoff.” As the hatch whined shut and the engines began to spool up, Tran issued another order. “Lock the hatch. Disable external voice commands.” Werkmor was pounding on the door as the autopilot ran through the final part of the preflight checklist. When that failed to work, the executive backed away and circled around to the point where he could be seen from the cockpit. The wash from the truck’s rotating belly light blipped across the sector director’s naked body as he waved his arms and yelled words that Tran couldn’t hear. She couldn’t help but laugh. ••• The sun was up and Rogan wasn’t sure what to expect as he looked up into the sky and shaded his eyes. He was about a thousand yards away from one of the mysterious mounds. Why would the Hudu want to meet him there of all places? Rogan saw a dot appear above him. Then it turned into what looked like a pod as it grew larger. There was no glide path—just a straight drop. Rogan thought the shuttle was going to smash into the ground when the pod flattened out to become something that looked like a concave pancake. That caused it slow. The disk wobbled as jets of air stabbed the ground. Then, just prior to landing, the shuttle morphed into a pod again. A slit appeared and was transformed into an oval moments later. The first person to exit the spacecraft was a Hudu. Although Rogan had never seen a member of that particular race

before, he’d seen pictures. The being’s small stature, loose-fitting skin, and raccoon-like muzzle were consistent with the pictures he’d seen. That Hudu was followed by two more and, last but not least, a human female. She had lots of curly hair and even features and was dressed in khakis. Various types of equipment hung all about her. And when their eyes made contact, Rogan felt a sense of recognition, as if they had met before even though they hadn’t. But rather than take the time required to analyze the feeling, he had to go over and introduce himself. “Hello, and welcome to Calag 4782/X. My name is Dan Rogan.” What he got in return was a series of high-pitched squeaks and squeals, like feedback from a PA system. “Sorry,” the woman said, “but you’re going to need a translator. We can share mine. I’m Mattie Meyers.” Rogan looked into hazel eyes and liked what he saw there. Intelligence, yes, but other qualities as well. Curiosity perhaps . . . and a touch of amusement, as if she was thinking about him, thinking about her, thinking about . . . Rogan forced his mind back to the task at hand. “Yes, thank you. What did he or she say?” “I can’t pronounce his name, so I call him Leo,” Meyers answered. “He said that you are to be congratulated.” “Congratulated? For what?” “For making good on Calag’s promise to take care of the planet the Hudu call Peace.” Leo spoke again, and now Rogan could understand him, thanks to the translator. “What the Meyers female (of no familial status) said is true. It is my privilege to inform you that we don’t plan to sue the Calag corporation.” Rogan’s head was spinning. “Sue? Over what?” “When we sold Peace to Calag, it was with the understanding that the planet would be properly maintained, our burial mounds would remain untouched, and we could return to process (inter) our dead. All of it is spelled out in Section 3701 of the title transfer agreement on file with the Confederation. So, as I said, congratulations. We assumed the company would fail to meet its obligations, thereby forcing legal action. A nice out-of-court settlement is always welcome.” The fact, if it was a fact, that Calag 4782/X had been purchased from the Hudu was news to Rogan. Meyers smiled. “The Hudu have a saying: ‘The only thing worse than dying is blowing a deal.’” “And that brings us back to the situation at hand,” Leo said pragmatically. “In order to carry out our death rites, we need to reactivate the structures stored underneath those mounds.” Visions of giant earthmovers, mountains of dirt, and bottomless holes filled Rogan’s head. The whole thing was a nightmare. “How long will that take?” he inquired, fearing the worst. “Five or ten minutes should handle it,” Leo said as he produced a pistol-shaped device. He aimed whatever it was at the nearest mound and pressed a button. Rogan waited, but nothing happened. “Listen,” he said, “maybe we should—” Leo held up a paw-like hand. “Hold that thought, Rogan male (of no familial status). I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then the ground began to shake, a rumble was heard, and the earth covering the nearest mound started to slough away. The reason for that became apparent when three bladelike arches appeared. And that wasn’t all. The ground continued to vibrate as more long-buried constructs rose to the surface. If Meyers was surprised, Rogan couldn’t tell, because she was busy documenting the process with a vidcorder. “Okay,” Leo said as the remote went back into its holster. “You had a question?”

••• “I’m a freaking genius.” That’s what Tran told herself at the time. Because who would think to look for the money inside a maintenance bot’s built-in tool compartment? But now, with Joman Jones on the ground, Tran regretted the decision. The droid carrying the loot was nowhere to be seen, and she lacked the means to summon it. The truck was a mile away, hidden behind a windbreak that consisted of fast-growing willows. From there it had been necessary to proceed on foot using her recently acquired knowledge of the terrain to reach the south end of the support building undetected. And that’s where Tran was, crouched behind a stack of empty cable reels, when she heard the crackle of electricity and a humming sound. Tran turned. The rateye was hovering three feet away. She got up and began to run, but the drone stunned her. Tran tumbled head over heels and wound up on her back. She could see a fluffy white cloud and the blue sky beyond it. Tran heard the crunch of boots on gravel and saw Joman Jones loom above her. “Hello, bitch . . . Where’s my money?” ••• Meyers had accepted Rogan’s invitation to stay at the house for a few days, and they were airborne when Wally’s voice came over the com. “Hey, Dan . . . We’ve got another problem.” Rogan sighed. “What now?” “Tran.” Rogan looked at Meyers from the corner of his eye. She was seated next to him. He liked her and wanted her to like him, so how to explain Tran? “What about her? She’s with Werkmor, right?” “Wrong,” Wally replied. “It’s kind of complicated, but here’s how I understand it. Tran stole some money and came here to hide. The Ag heads aren’t Ag heads. They’re after the money. Once Tran realized that, she left Werkmor and returned to the house. That’s where they captured her.” Rogan felt a deep sense of disappointment and embarrassment. Tran had never been interested in him. All she wanted was a place to hide. As for Wally, well, his story didn’t add up. “I think you left something out. How did Tran figure out that the Ag heads weren’t Ag heads?” ••• That was the part of the chronology Wally had hoped to skim over. Now he had to respond and do so without implicating himself any more than necessary. The key was to tell carefully selected parts of the truth. “I can see what’s going on inside the house when I need to,” Wally began. ••• “And when you don’t need to,” Rogan replied. “Go on.” “I saw that the fake Ag heads were searching Tran’s room, and figured I should tell her,” Wally said carefully. “She’s your girlfriend. I assumed that was what you’d want me to do.” The words had an edge, and Rogan could feel the weight of Meyers’s gaze. There was no reason to be embarrassed, but he was. And even though he had known Meyers for less than an hour, Rogan didn’t want her to think he was in a relationship. “She isn’t my girlfriend,” Rogan said, hoping Meyers would take note, “but she is a guest. You said they captured her. What do they want?”

“They want to speak with you,” Wally replied. “In person.” “Okay,” Rogan said. “I’m on the way. Dr. Meyers is with me. Please forward messages from the Hudu if there are any . . . And, Wally . . .” “Yeah?” “Send a grav barge for Werkmor.” “Will do.” Rogan heard a click followed by silence. ••• As a house and some outbuildings appeared in the distance, Meyers struggled to adjust. Suddenly, after months spent with the Hudu, she found herself in the company of a very interesting man, who, if she understood things correctly, was in the middle of a gigantic mess. One thing was for sure, though . . . Life on Calag 4782/X wasn’t boring. Rogan put the truck down well away from the house and ordered the autopilot to run the shutdown sequence. “I’m sorry about all this craziness,” he said. “Perhaps you should stay here while I speak with these people.” Meyers smiled. “Fat chance. I’m not very good at watching. I tend to get involved.” “Okay,” Rogan replied. “But stay back a ways . . . They could have weapons.” They left the truck and made their way toward the house. Once they were a couple of hundred yards away, Meyers took partial cover behind a pump house as Rogan went forward alone. He stopped a hundred feet away. The front door opened and Tran stumbled out, closely followed by the man with the blond hair. He was carrying a blast rifle. Tran had been beaten and Rogan felt sorry for her. More than that, he felt a growing sense of anger. He looked Olafson in the eye. “So who the hell are you?” “My name doesn’t matter,” Olafson replied. “What matters is my money. Tran took it and I’m here to get it back.” “So take it and leave,” Rogan said. “Ah, if only it was that simple,” Olafson replied. “Tran hid the money inside one of your robots. We haven’t been able to find it. So here’s the deal . . . You have one hour to find the robot, get the money, and bring it here. Otherwise I will shoot Tran in the head and leave. Oh, and don’t attempt to board my ship; you’ll be sorry if you do.” Rogan looked at Tran. One eye was swollen shut and her lower lip was puffy. “Which robot did you hide the money in?” Her voice was shaky. “The one you call Judy.” “Okay,” Rogan said as he turned to Olafson. “I’ll find Judy and return the money.” “One hour,” Olafson said as he pulled Tran toward the door. “That’s all you get.”

Chapter T welve The first and most important responsibility of a Calag Planetary Manager is to protect the company’s property. (Excerpted from the Calag Planetary Manager’s Handbook, 2nd edition, chapter 1, page 1, paragraph 3.)

Calag Planet 4782/X pressed the com link under his jaw. “Wally . . . Tran says she hid the money inside R ogan Judy. Where is Judy right now?” Wally thought Rogan’s tendency to name robots was silly but had grown accustomed to it. “I’ll check,” he replied. “Stand by.” Meyers came forward to meet Rogan. Her expression was grave. “What will you do?” “I can’t fight them,” Rogan replied. “They have the only weapons on the planet. So all I can do is give them the money and alert the authorities.” Meyers’s eyes grew larger. She pointed over Rogan’s shoulder. “Who is that?” Rogan heard a loud humming sound and turned to look. The open grav barge was in the process of landing. And there, standing in the middle of it, was Elvas Werkmor. He was wearing a sleeping bag. Holes had been cut for his arms and the bottom was hacked off just below the knees. “That,” Rogan said, “is my boss. Or ex-boss, since I don’t expect to be working here much longer.” A ramp dropped to the ground, which allowed Werkmor to make his way down off the barge. The mummy bag forced him to take tiny steps, and Meyers stifled a laugh as the executive approached them. “Where is the rotten bitch?” he demanded. “In the house,” Rogan replied. “I’m going to kill her,” Werkmor declared calmly. “Then I’m going to fire you and the tin can up in orbit. Who the hell is this?” “My name is Meyers. Dr. Matti Meyers,” the anthropologist replied brightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended a hand. Werkmor ignored it. He turned to Rogan. “Why is she here?” “She’s studying the Hudu,” Rogan answered. “They owned Calag 4782/X before we bought it—and have the right to bury their dead here. That’s what they claim anyway. More than a million mourners will arrive during the next few days. Their ships are in orbit now.” Werkmor was speechless. His jaw worked, but nothing came out of his mouth. Finally, he managed to produce the necessary words. “You’re fired.” “Yes, sir . . . That being the case, I will hand the Tran situation over to you.” Werkmor looked suspicious. “Tran situation? What Tran situation?” “She’s being held captive inside the house,” Meyers said helpfully. “It seems she stole some money and hid it inside a robot named Judy, and the people she took it from are here to get it back.”

Werkmor looked at Rogan, who nodded. “That’s about the size of it, sir. You have less than an hour to find the money and give it to them. Otherwise they plan to kill her. Wait a minute— Wally has something to tell me.” The others were forced to wait as Wally spoke to Rogan. “You aren’t going to like this.” Rogan sighed. “What now?” “My records show that Judy continued to take unauthorized coffee breaks even after the reload and reboot process was completed. So she was deactivated and placed in a container loaded with scrap metal.” “Don’t tell me,” Rogan replied. “Let me guess. The scrap was fired into orbit and loaded onto one of the freighters.” “You’re smarter than you look.” “So there’s nothing we can do. Not in the amount of time we have.” “Not true,” Wally countered. “There is something you can do.” Rogan listened. Would the plan work? He’d know soon enough. ••• There was very little light inside the bedroom. That was partly because a large wardrobe had been placed in front of the single window, but the room’s glow strips were turned off as well. Tran was seated on a chair while two androids stood guard. She thought of them as Frick and Frack. Jones figured Rogan would be willing to trade the money for her. Tran knew better. She had lied to Rogan. Used him. So once he recovered the money, he would keep it, and Jones wouldn’t be able to find him. Not on Rogan’s world. And there was something else as well. There had been a number of beatings, but during an intermission Jones told her about the artificial kidneys and what would happen if he couldn’t return the money to La Paz within a couple of weeks. The con man was living on borrowed time. That meant he couldn’t afford to stay on Calag 4782/X for very long. Tran’s thoughts were interrupted by a crash as something punched a hole in the wall. It was a huge fist, a mechanical fist. A shaft of sunlight hit the floor as it was withdrawn. Frick hurried over to peer through the hole. The fist struck again and the impact made a big dent in Frick’s face. As the android keeled over backward, Frack grabbed hold of her. A metal foot pod kicked a hole in the wall. Tran had seen Rogan use the exoskeletons and understood. He was coming for her! Suddenly there was reason to hope. ••• Jones heard the commotion from the other side of the house but was powerless to help. The more immediate threat was the huge harvester that rumbled into view. It crushed a storage shed and made straight for his spaceship, so Jones came out shooting, and the target was so big that he couldn’t miss. Energy bolts hit the harvester, blew holes in it, and started a fire. But none of the hits were sufficient to stop the gigantic machine as it bore down on the Avian, so Jones aimed for the control compartment on top of the monster. There was a flash as the bolt struck and metal turned to slag. That was when a man wearing what looked like a dress emerged, ran the length of a catwalk, and jumped. Jones fired again. The resulting explosion brought the harvester to a halt. Having won that battle, Jones turned to go inside. •••

Rogan delivered a final kick, and another section of wall collapsed. Now the hole was large enough for the exoskeleton to step through. The android let go of Tran in order to attack him. It was clear that the normal prohibitions against attacking humans had been bypassed. Even though Rogan was “wearing” an ES, large sections of his anatomy were exposed. That included his abdomen, and a well-delivered punch brought him to his mechanical knees. And that’s where he was, struggling to recover, when Tran jumped the robot from behind. She was riding the droid’s back and clawing at the machine’s face when Rogan stood. Servos whined as he reached out to grab the robot’s skull. Rogan gave a mighty twist to the right, and sparks flew as the head came off. Tran jumped free as the machine collapsed. “Through the hole,” Rogan ordered. “Now.” Tran obeyed and was gone by the time Jones entered. He looked at Rogan, saw the opening, and swore. He was in the process of raising the blast rifle when Meyers shot him in the back. The bolt exited through his chest, missed Rogan by six inches, and passed through the hole in the wall. There was a thump as the body hit the ruble-strewn floor. “Sorry,” Meyers said as she looked at all the destruction. “I never fired one of these things before.” The anthropologist looked like she was going to throw up. Rogan freed himself from the ES and jumped to the floor. Then with one arm around Meyers’s waist, he took her out into the living area. As they passed through, Rogan saw two rifles lying on the kitchen table. He appropriated one just in case. Werkmor was standing on the porch. Apparently all was forgiven, because he had one arm around Tran and she was sobbing into his right shoulder. An act? Probably. But so what? Rogan figured the two of them deserved each other. Then he noticed the badly damaged harvey, the smoke pouring out of the engine compartment, and the robots working to put the fire out. And that wasn’t all. Something was missing. “Where’s the Avian?” Rogan inquired. “A woman and an android ran out of the house shortly after Mr. Werkmor jumped off the harvester,” Meyers said. “The Avian took off a few moments later.” Rogan knew the woman was Jones’s pilot. He eyed Werkmor. The Calag executive was still dressed in the modified sleeping bag. “You ran the harvester?” Werkmor’s eyes went to the machine in question before swinging back to Rogan. There was a frown on his face. “You mean the unit that suffered a malfunction and caught fire? Certainly not. Why would I do that?” The implication was clear. Werkmor planned to make the whole thing go away: his dalliance with Tran, the trouble she had been in, and the battle that ensued. And that suited Rogan just fine. “Right . . . Well, if you had, that would have been a brave thing to do. I’ll pack my stuff and put in a call to Moms. Maybe she can give me a lift.” “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Werkmor cautioned, “not unless you’re willing to forfeit this month’s pay. Read section 5689.4, paragraph three of your contract. It’s right there in blackand-white. Besides, you have work to do.” Rogan was about to reply when Wally’s voice came over the com link. “Heads up, Dan . . . Here they come.” Rogan looked up and shaded his eyes. Thousands of shuttle pods were falling out of the sky. They braked and disappeared beyond some low-lying hills. The Hudu death rites were about to begin. ••• Three days had passed since the battle with Olafson and his thugs, and the con man was

buried under a tree two miles south of the house. Tran said that the grave was “a waste of a perfectly good hole.” Of course, reports would have to be filed and lies would have to be told, all of which would add to Rogan’s burden. The load out had been completed, and in spite of multiple delays, the fleet was only fifteen hours late as it departed for Mechnos 3, the world where the food would be processed and packaged for distribution. Shortly after the fleet departed, Werkmor’s ship took off with Tran on board. They were clearly in a hurry. To spend some quality time together? Or to beat the fleet to Mechnos 3 and intercept Judy? If Werkmor retired within the next month, Rogan would know why. Now, as the final phase of the Hudu death rites began, Rogan and Meyers were standing on an otherwise empty grav barge. The platform was floating about fifty feet off the ground so the anthropologist could capture video of everything that took place below. Thousands of shuttle pods were resting on the gently rolling grassland, and hundreds of thousands of mourners were present. Some sat on blankets, some were wandering about, and others were clustered around screens that allowed them to watch the ceremonies via a temporary wide area network. Contrary to what Rogan expected, the mood was upbeat. And that, according to Meyers, had to do with the firm belief that the departed were in a much better place, a paradise where there were no onerous government regulations to comply with, no tort laws to circumvent, and no income taxes to pay—in other words, a land of eternal bliss. Now, having expired right on schedule, the elders were laid out on the conveyer belts that would bring their carefully wrapped bodies up out of underground storage vaults to a platform directly below a gleaming stainless steel arch. Rogan was stationed in front of a slender waisthigh podium where he could control the barge via two joysticks. He held the platform stationary over Crematorium 22 as the final moment arrived. Each crematorium was equipped with a magnifying lens that was roughly twelve feet across. They were mounted on the crosspieces that ran side to side between the central arches. As the humans looked on, servos were used to adjust the big magnifier until it was in the perfect position. Then shutters opened and a beam of sunlight hit the first body. The heat produced was well in excess of two thousand degrees Fahrenheit and more than sufficient to vaporize the small sheet-wrapped corpse. Smoke drifted away as the conveyer belt delivered the next body, and so forth, until all the elders (shareowners) had been accounted for. As Rogan watched, he knew that the same process was being replicated at all the other crematoriums as well. The Hudu had been fasting for the last thirty-six hours, so once the last cremation was over, it was time to open up containers of food and party. Meyers recorded some of that prior to shutting her corders down and turning to Rogan. “Okay,” she said. “I’m off duty.” “Excellent,” Rogan replied. “I brought a picnic dinner. Would you care to join me?” “I would like that very much,” Meyers replied as a gentle breeze pushed the barge east. “I’m hungry.” It was later, after a leisurely meal and a bottle of wine, that the conversation turned to the future. “The crematoriums will disappear into the ground again,” Meyers told him, “but there’s a library . . . and the Hudu are willing to let me access it. Who knows what sort of information is waiting there.” There was a hopeful expression on Rogan’s face. “So you might stay?” “Could I?”

“As long as you want.” Meyers smiled. “They tell me it’s a big library. This could take a while.” Rogan said, “I sure hope so,” and that was when they kissed. ••• Wally was watching from two hundred and fifty miles above the surface. He couldn’t hear but didn’t need to. The kiss said it all. He waited for the sudden flood of jealousy and was surprised when it failed to make itself known. Maybe he had changed. Or maybe messing around with Rogan’s love life was too much work. A message came in. A rogue storm was ripping into some fish farms three thousand miles southeast of Rogan’s house. The PM would want to know. But there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. So Wally killed the video feed and made a note to tell Rogan about the storm in the morning. Then he went to sleep. There were dreams—and he was whole.

Other books by William C. Dietz The McCade Series: Galactic Bounty (War World), Imperial Bounty, Alien Bounty, McCade’s Bounty, McCade For Hire (Includes Galactic Bounty and Imperial Bounty), McCade On The Run (Includes Alien Bounty and McCade’s Bounty) The Drift er Series: Drifter, Drifter’s Run, Drifter’s War The Corvan duology: Matrix Man, and Mars Prime The Original Legion Series: Legion Of The Damned, The Final Battle, By Blood Alone, By Force Of Arms, For More Than Glory, For Those Who Fell, When All Seems Lost, and When Duty Calls and A Fighting Chance The Prequel Legion Series Andromeda’s Fall, Andromeda’s Choice (December 2013), and Andromeda’s War (December 2014) The Sauron Duology, Deathday and Earthrise The Runner Duology, Runner, and Logos Run The Empire Duology, At Empire’s Edge (October 2009), and Bones Of Empire (October 2010) Singles: Freehold, Prison Planet, Where The Ships Die, Bodyguard, Steelheart, The Seeds of Man Thrillers: Snake Eye, Ejecta (Kindle only) Wit h ot her aut hors: Cluster Command, with Dave Drake Gaming relat ed books: Soldier For The Empire, Dark Forces, Rebel Agent, Dark Forces, Jedi Knight, Dark Forces/Lucas Films, Berkley Publishing/Darkhorse Comics

Halo, The Flood/Tor/Bungie Hitman:Enemy Within/Del Rey/Eidos Resistance: The Gathering Storm/Del Rey/Sony-Insomniac. Resistance: A Hole In The Sky/Del Rey/Sony-Insomniac. Heaven’s Devils/Pocket/Blizzard. Mass Effect: Deception Del Rey/BioWare Games Writ t en: Legion of the Damned for i-Phone, i-Touch, and i-Pad from Offworld Games Resistance: Burning Skies for the Sony PS Vita, with Mike Bates, from Nihilistic

New York Times bestselling author William C. Diet z has published more than forty novels some of which have been translated into German, French, Russian, Korean and Japanese. Dietz also wrote the script for the Legion of the Damned game (i-Phone, i-Touch, & i-Pad) based on his book of the same name—and co-wrote SONY’s Resistance: Burning Skies game for the PS Vita. Dietz grew up in the Seattle area, spent time with the Navy and Marine Corps as a medic, graduated from the University of Washington, lived in Africa for half a year, and has traveled to six continents. Dietz has been employed as a surgical technician, college instructor, news writer, television producer and Director of Public Relations and Marketing for an international telephone company.

Dietz is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, the Writer’s Guild, and the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers. He and his wife live near Gig Harbor in Washington State where they enjoy traveling, kayaking, and reading books. For more information about William C. Diet z and his work visit: williamcdietz.com Co p yr i g h t © 2013 b y Wi l l i a m C. Di etz Th i s b o o k i s a wo r k o f fi cti o n . Na m es, ch a r a cter s, p l a ces a n d i n ci d en ts a r e ei th er p r o d u cts o f th e a u th o r ’s i m a g i n a ti o n o r u sed fi cti ti o u sl y. An y r esem b l a n ce to a ctu a l even ts, l o ca l es, o r p er so n s, l i vi n g o r d ea d , i s p u r el y co i n ci d en ta l . Al l r i g h ts r eser ved . No p a r t o f th i s p u b l i ca ti o n ca n b e r ep r o d u ced o r tr a n sm i tted i n a n y fo r m o r b y a n y m ea n s, el ectr o n i c o r m ech a n i ca l , wi th o u t p er m i ssi o n i n wr i ti n g fr o m th e a u th o r o r p u b l i sh er .